Orange Blossom Special
by TwistedGoth
Summary: AU. In the second great war, Sweden broke neutrality to allow unarmed German troops to travel through their country via railroad. Berwald, freedom fighter, disagrees with this decision and sabotages a train. But the soldier that he captures as leverage was planning on going AWOL anyway, and sometimes your worst enemy can become your strongest ally. Sweden x Germany, Den x Fin
1. Twenty-Five Minutes To Go

**A/N **: Yay for crack.

**Pairings** : Main pairing is Sweden x Germany, with a very heavy one-sided Sweden x Finland, and Denmark x Finland. Other characters featured are Prussia, Finland, Denmark, Norway, Estonia, and a few cameos here and there.

**Warnings! **: AU. Human characters. Set in WWII era Europe. Starts in 1940, and moves onward. Violence, language, war, arson, murder, sabotage, Nazis, angst, occasional insanity, **character death**, defector!Germany; again, all the usual things you can expect from me. Historical facts may be incorrect and/or slightly distorted for my own personal gain.

A note on names : Finland will be going by Timo rather than Tino, as it is a more accurate Finnish name. From the creator's picks, I liked Lukas for Norway and Magnus for Denmark, so there you go.

Thanks for reading, and drop a line if you have time.

All of the chapter titles are Johnny Cash songs, because whenever Sweden is in my head, I swear that's all I hear. Just a lot of Johnny Cash.

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><p><strong>ORANGE BLOSSOM SPECIAL<strong>

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><p><strong>Chapter 1<strong>

**Twenty-Five Minutes To Go**

The train would leave soon.

The sounds of bustling and the sharp smell of coal and the crowds of people were indicators of a departure.

The station was for military, and transport this time was of men, not weapons or ammunition. Five hundred men, soldiers of the Wehrmacht, stood around with their hands tucked in their pockets, puffing carelessly on cigarettes as they chatted to each other and waited for the next leg of their journey to begin.

The sky was blue. White clouds.

The time of year when winter was turning into spring. There was still snow on the ground, but the grass was starting to push up underneath it, and the wind was warmer. The sun was brighter in the sky, and the clouds less overwhelming.

The wind was blowing.

The atmosphere was light.

These soldiers were unarmed, relaxed and unworried. They were not off to a dangerous combat zone. They were not going to the Western front. They were not going to the sea. They were not destined to go up in the air.

They were going North. A daily transport of unarmed men through (supposedly) neutral lands. There was nothing to fear. Nothing to worry about, and they could enjoy this train ride, safe and secure. No weapons. No helmets. No scarves of machine-gun ammunition.

Just a train ride.

And still...

"Why d'ya have to look so worried all the time?"

No response, and then finally, over the commotion, a deep, "Sorry. Can't help it."

Ludwig couldn't. It was his nature to worry. Just because Gilbert didn't understand the meaning of the word did not mean that _he _was so lucky.

Standing there on the end of the train, gripping the railing in his hands so tightly that his knuckles were white, Ludwig could only stare down at Gilbert, and try his best to keep his face impassive.

But Gilbert always knew when he was fretting.

"You worry too much, you know. You should try to have a little more fun."

Easy for Gilbert to say. War _was _fun for Gilbert.

It was not fun for him.

"I _have _to worry," he finally snitted, as Gilbert leered up at him, "God knows you don't."

Gilbert rolled his eyes and shrugged him off, and Ludwig shifted his weight anxiously as the train slowly filled up with men.

It was almost time to go.

Gilbert was not part of this transport. He was just on leave, and had come down to see his brother off. A fond farewell, because even though Gilbert never worried, that did not mean that something could not suddenly happen to either one of them.

Gilbert was not invincible. He was not always lucky.

War was unpredictable.

Those words did not need to be said, and this goodbye was not meant to be a final one. They had too much ahead of them, far too young to contemplate an untimely death. Besides, this transit was not dangerous.

Gilbert's eyes were cool and confident. But that was only because...

"Do you know when you're going back to France?" he asked, and Gilbert shrugged a shoulder, waving his hand in the air.

"Ah. Few weeks. Who knows? Since you're leaving, I'll probably try to go back sooner."

He frowned, wishing that Gilbert would not.

Such bold recklessness and willingness to leap into battle would only lead him to harm.

"Don't push it," he grumbled, and Gilbert reached up to punch his upper arm, gently.

"Don't tell me what to do, jerk."

"_Someone _has to."

"Someone, maybe, but not you. I'm the man of the household, remember?"

"Since when?"

"Since I out-drank you at Oktoberfest four years ago."

"I was only fifteen. That hardly seems fair."

"Yeah, well... You know."

Halfhearted jests. Awkward attempts at normalcy. They fell still, because this was not a normal moment.

For different reasons than Gilbert assumed. Gilbert didn't know what lay ahead on these tracks. Gilbert didn't know what things ran through his mind.

He felt sick, suddenly, with either nervousness or trepidation.

Or guilt.

Gilbert saw his pale forehead and furrowed brow, and mistook it for fear.

"Hey! Don't worry about it!" Gilbert said, eagerly, leaning against the railing with folded arms and placing his chin upon them as he gazed up at Ludwig fondly from the ground. "It's just Norway! You're lucky. There's nothin' much goin' on there right now anyway. I'd rather you went to Norway. You'll be pretty safe there. It'll be like vacation!"

Vacation?

Ha.

Shaking his head, he gripped the railing in his hands, fighting off the squirming of nausea in his stomach as he stared down at Gilbert from above.

Gilbert didn't know.

Ludwig tried to make light of that horrible clamminess churning within, and said, coolly, "Yeah, I get to walk around in the snow and tell people not to run so fast in the streets, and you get to go out and lay around in Paris by the fountains? That's not fair."

Gilbert only snorted, and said, casually, "Your time will come. Better to get your legs first. Learn how to shoot someone, and _then _you can go to France."

"I know how to shoot."

"I know you can shoot. I said learn to shoot _someone_. You can't just go around holdin' the rifle and bluffing. You need to learn to pull the trigger. You're too nice, Ludwig. It'll bite your ass one day. Remember the last time?"

He did.

Didn't _want_ to. But he did.

"I didn't get shot, though."

"Because _I _was there!" Gilbert was quick to point out, and Ludwig could only stand there, as Gilbert peered up at him. "You're a good shot, you're just too nice. Ah, you're still a kid—whaddya _you _know? Well, I'm glad you're goin' to Norway. It'll be a good breaking in for you. First Norway, and then France, and then the world, right?"

Their gazes met, and Gilbert's fond look was mingled with a certain pride, and now the guilt was almost unbearable.

He would never go to France.

"But, _damn_, you look good in that uniform!" Gilbert suddenly crooned, reaching up and tucking his fingers within the space between the buttons of his shirt, and it was with a somewhat strained laugh that he added, "You grew up way too fast. I wish you'd have joined the SS instead. Or just stayed at home."

Ludwig could only shrug, and say, lowly, "And let you have all the fun throwing grenades?"

Gilbert broke into one of those broad, self-satisfied grins then, and grabbed the railing, pulling himself upward as he said, roughly, "That's it! You sound just like me sometimes!"

And then he tilted his head upwards and kissed Ludwig upon the lips. Gilbert's favorite way of doling brotherly affection. Even in front of _everyone_.

A few seconds of stillness, and then Ludwig pulled away, cheeks red.

"Knock it off," he chided, and as Gilbert pulled away with a leer, Ludwig could only look around in embarrassment, somehow worried that everyone would be watching him. He wasn't as comfortable displaying affection so publicly as Gilbert did.

He always worried that everyone would stare.

No one ever did, and it was not such a strange thing, for brothers to show fondness like this. No one gave them a second thought, and Gilbert shook his head and said, "Calm down."

Ludwig did, and the flush on his cheeks slowly receded. For worse. His embarrassment was replaced with another wave of that horrible guilt.

Gilbert looked happy. Confident.

Gilbert didn't know. _No one_ knew.

Over the chatter of soldiers and the moving of equipment, there was the sudden blast of the train horn. Last call. It was time to go.

Gilbert reached up and took his hand within both of his own, patting the top with that sure, fervent confidence that came so easily to Gilbert, and he said, above the ruckus, "I'll see you when you come back. I'll get leave and meet up with you somewhere, alright?"

He could only nod.

"Hey, be careful, alright? Just...you know. Just be careful. Remember what I told you, please. Don't be so nice. Stay on guard all the time, _alright_? I'll see you."

"Sure," was all he could manage, thickly, too ashamed to say much else, and Gilbert placed a firm, swift kiss upon the top of his hand.

"I'll see you again. Don't be sad."

He nodded, and Gilbert's hand slipped from his own as the train lurched forward.

He would _not_ cry.

"Goodbye."

Gilbert watched him go, arms crossed above his chest, brow high and smiling, as though he just knew that everything would be okay.

Ludwig did not smile, because it hurt, to stand there on the end of the train and grab the railing with one hand and wave with the other, and to know that, for all of Gilbert's sure words and promises, he would not come back.

He wouldn't see Gilbert again.

He loved that man, always had, but he wasn't going to see him again.

The wind picked up as the train gained steam, and the great cloud of smoke darkened the sun momentarily from overhead, casting him in a faint shadow. The tracks began to blur. The men behind him were chatting, but he had no mind of them, taking in the last glimpse of Gilbert's pale hair, gleaming silver in the high sun.

For the last time.

The tracks passed. Gilbert was far away. Not even a minute later, and he was no longer in sight.

The others retreated into the car as the wind whipped up, but Ludwig stayed put, removing his cap and keeping it tucked under his arm so that it would not blow away.

No one knew.

This train was going to occupied Norway, alright.

He was not.

Because before the train reached its destination in Oslo, it would first pass through the Soviet-occupied Finland, and then the neutral Sweden. The train would go to Norway, but he would not be aboard when it crossed that last border. He wouldn't make it out of Sweden.

A terrible thing for a man to do, to jump into foreign lands and desert the country that had born him and sheltered him and raised him. To forgo his instilled pride in his land, and seek asylum in another. The worst thing a man could do, to defect from the motherland that he had been trained to support and adore. An even worse offense for a soldier, bound to protect her by honor and sworn in blood.

The worst thing a man could do. He would do it all the same.

He loved Germany as much as he loved Gilbert. He always would, but it wasn't Germany anymore.

It was something else. Something dark and _wrong_. It was not the country he had once known, and when this train passed through the quiet, flat fields of Sweden, a country he knew or cared nothing about, he would wait until the night was well along, and when the other soldiers had nodded off, he would hang over the railing and search for a soft-looking spot.

Jump.

He would not go to Norway to occupy a town and torment its citizens. He would not wait to get sent out to kill other men on the French border. He would not wait for Gilbert to nudge him into joining the SS. He would not support a cause he did not believe in.

He loved Germany.

That was why he _had_ to jump, and maybe Gilbert would never understand it, but it was the only way he could keep his pride and his respect for his country's good name.

Gilbert wouldn't understand.

The hours passed, and he stood there, lost in his thoughts. Finland came upon him sooner than he had anticipated.

As the harsh wind whipped his hair loose of its severe style, he only crossed his arms and stared out into the white and hazel fields, tall grass poking up defiantly through the snow drifts, and the farther and farther away he got from all of that, the lighter the burden on his shoulders became.

Even though it would _shame _Gilbert. Even though it would hurt him, more than any bullet ever could.

Gilbert loved war. Ludwig couldn't bear any more of it.

He would disappear from the world, for a while, and everyone would assume him dead, eventually even stubborn Gilbert, and maybe when this unforgivable war was over he could reemerge from thin air and attempt to contact those whom he had once known.

Standing there, on the edge of the platform, watching the railroad run back behind him, he could only sigh to himself, as the air grew ever colder, and say aloud to no one, "Sorry, Gilbert."

Maybe it would be for the best that they wouldn't meet again.

If he jumped off of this train in the middle of Sweden and tried to defect, Gilbert wouldn't ever _want _to see him again, anyway. He would be dishonored, and disgraced, doomed to live in shame, and everyone would think him a coward. Especially aggressive, proud Gilbert.

He could never go back home with honor.

That was alright. He could handle that. Befouling Gilbert's good name and turning his back on his own countrymen were sins he could live with.

The fields zoomed by, the white clouds rolled slowly across the endless sky, and for the first time in years, he felt something almost like peace, as the cold wind roared in his ears.

_Traitor_, Gilbert would say.

There were worse things than being called a traitor.

The sun began to lower towards the horizon. The sky was pink. He could smell grass and snow and the air was sweet with the outdoors. Sweden was close.

He tried to feel hopeful. Sweden wouldn't be so bad. Maybe he would learn to ice fish. He could see the northern lights. Maybe he could get some dogs and put together a sled team and run them just for fun on the weekends. He would live here as one of them, just a normal person, with a normal job and a normal house and a normal outfit. His gun would be used for hunting deer.

Not people.

He would forsake his duties in favor of his conscience.

He would start a new life out here in the snowy fields and pretend that he had never once worn that swastika on his arm or that iron cross on his chest. That he had never _seen _those things, or turned his head away as people screamed, that he had never heard the breaking of glass or smelt the gasoline and smoke from the burning buildings. That he had never heard that gunfire from the street and just closed the curtains. That he had never had the opportunity to save a life and had instead just stood there, frozen. He could pretend that he had done _something_.

Instead of nothing.

He would be normal here.

The fields passed.

Salvation.

No one would ever know.


	2. Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down

**Chapter 2**

**Sunday Mornin' Comin' Down**

Midnight.

Everything was quiet. The passing of Saturday night into Sunday morning. The clouds were gone. Countless stars. On the horizon, the northern lights had decided to come out and play.

The snow-covered fields gleamed in the moonlight.

A trail of white smoke floating out against the dark night sky. The steaming and chugging of a distant train.

Berwald liked trains.

He liked the style and the rustic glamour, the power and the speed and the unwavering path. He liked the sound and the smell of them. He liked the look of them. The feel of steel and the glossy iron in the sunlight.

He liked trains, but only when they did not carry within their bowels something sinister.

As this train did.

The dull, iron railroad tracks stood beneath him, as he paced them back and forth restlessly, with the stars and moon as his light, calculating the distance of the train and the time that would be necessary. The wind was gentle on his back. Within his hands he held a thick bundle; sticks of dynamite, wrapped together neatly and topped off with a long fuse. Continuing his pacing at a leisurely rate, he glanced up, at the curving track, and he could see the faint gleams of the approaching train.

A fair distance. Fifteen minutes, perhaps, to arrive at the point where he stood.

He tossed the bundle mindlessly from one hand to the other, staring blankly into the distance as the aurora shimmered off on the horizon. The headlight of the train beamed out like a searchlight.

A soft voice suddenly cut through the silence. A quiet hiss of a whisper.

"Go back about twenty paces, Berwald. I think that should be about right. Don't hold me to it, though."

Without taking his eyes from the steaming train, Berwald began to take steady strides backwards, and only muttered, lowly, "I _will_."

Even though he really wouldn't.

Timo had been wrong about things before, but Berwald was not the type to hold it against him, nor was he the type to say, in hindsight, 'I told you so.' To someone else, maybe, but not to Timo.

He trusted Timo's judgment.

This wasn't exactly an art form, anyway, nothing that they had down to a science, but Timo was good at figuring out time and distance and he was brave enough to light the fuse.

Twenty paces back, and he fell to one knee, tucking the bundle in between the tracks and aligning it until he saw fit.

Now it was just a matter of patience.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a lighter, flipping it around in his fingers as Timo, crouching in the field off to the side, stared at his watch and counted down the seconds.

The train began to round the wide bend.

And even though the train barreling towards him should have been the most interesting thing out here, Berwald found that his eyes, in the end, always wound up back on Timo.

One way or another.

Timo's pale hair shone out bright in the moonlight.

Sensing that he was being watched, perhaps, Timo glanced up from his watch, caught Berwald's eye, and then smiled, shifting his weight in possible apprehension. Berwald's staring always seemed to make Timo nervous, but that had never stopped him before.

Berwald, after all, had never been a stranger to staring, and was even less of one to being caught in the act. Unfazed, he continued to watch, and finally Timo dropped his head.

Timo, that pretty little thing, who had fled so recently from the Soviets when they had conquered Finland in the Winter War, unwilling to remain in his homeland for as long as the Soviets called it their own.

Berwald had welcomed him with open arms. They had been acquainted before, Berwald having lent his services, although in vain, to the Finnish resistance on numerous occasion throughout the short war, the first time as a way to escape his own mind.

The other times had just been to go back and see Timo, who he had found immediately to his liking, even more so when the little Finn was bundled in a huge coat and holding a rifle as he hid inside the snowy forests.

But that war had been lost and, for now, Timo did what he could here and there, sometimes on the Finnish border, sometimes on the Norwegian, but always kept safe and sound in between in Sweden.

Berwald watched his back, and in return, Timo watched his, and kept him on his path.

Timo was calm, and patient. Not as impulsive as Berwald. His ability to think before he acted was appreciated, and valuable.

As long as Timo wasn't angry, anyway. Then all of those traits went out of the window.

The train rounded the bend, and was steaming straight towards him.

He waited.

Timo counted seconds.

"Okay... _Now_, Berwald."

The signal.

He flipped the lighter to life, and lit the long fuse with a flick of his wrist.

The sparks shot into the air, and Berwald pulled himself upright, darting off and following Timo as he rushed back along the tracks, silent and stealthy, and they finally came to rest when they were far enough back to be out of harm's way.

The train was louder.

Crouching down in the snow, Berwald straightened his glasses, and rested his gloved fingers upon the ground to balance himself. Timo was down next to him, and before long, he found himself glancing out of the corner of his eye.

Timo began to shift again, that sign of discomfort.

Silence.

The train was closer. The sparks hissed off in the distance.

Timo squirmed under his relentless stare.

"How long's the fuse?" he finally asked, if only to make Timo feel less uncomfortable, and Timo shrugged a shoulder, restlessly.

"Ten minutes. Give or take."

A silence, and Berwald scoffed, as Timo once again averted his eyes and shifted his weight. Why was Timo always so nervous under his gaze?

"Give or take?"

"_Well_," Timo whispered, pointedly, "I'm not an expert at bomb making, thanks."

A deep, "Mm," was the only response he could think of, and after a few minutes of stillness, he finally offered nervous little Timo a reprieve and turned his gaze back to the train.

He could smell the smoke.

So close.

Then the smell of coal, and with it came the first pang of regret.

He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to _hurt _anyone, but...

He had been forced into this, and sometimes it was necessary to fight fire with fire. The Germans had been demanding, yes, but all Sweden had had to do was say, 'no'. Sweden didn't have to sell iron ore to Germany. But they did. Sweden didn't have to allow these daily transports of German soldiers through Swedish lands. But they did.

Berwald couldn't stand the thought. For the first time in his life, he was _ashamed _of his country. Neutrality. What neutrality? How was it neutral to allow Wehrmacht soldiers to board a train and travel through these fields? Even if they weren't armed now, they were going to Norway to occupy it, and there at the border they would be rearmed and sent straight into lethal service.

Norway was supposed to be brethren.

So was Finland.

But the Germans had Norway and the Soviets had Finland, and Sweden, instead of gathering its courage and sending its sons to fight alongside the repressed, just caved in beneath Axis demands to keep its prospects in good favor as the Axis seemed primed to win this terrible war.

Many Swedes had gone into battle alongside the Norwegians, but they were only volunteers. The government sat still, behind the mask of neutrality.

He didn't want to hurt anyone, especially unarmed soldiers (some on board were just nurses!), but how could he let them reach Norway, where they would be sent back into the war machine?

A terrible thing, to attack men who could not defend themselves.

Sleeping young men.

God.

How could he let them hurt citizens in Norway, who could also not defend themselves? War brought such awful situations upon men, and all he could do now was to envision the outcome, and pray that the end would justify the means.

That all this death would somehow be worth it if the good came out victorious.

He didn't want to hurt anyone.

The train was suddenly upon them, and the fierce wind that whipped his hair back made him tense up, and he watched with something that almost felt like lurid fascination as the locomotive sped past them, its great wheels turning and grinding across the land with intent.

The train had no idea that this was the end of the line. The soldiers were sleeping.

Beside of him, Timo covered his eyes with his hands, and for a delirious moment, he almost did the same; who wanted to witness _that_? To see an explosion that would take the lives of countless, and to know that you were the one that lit the fuse?

Perhaps it was his burden, to watch.

The train continued to pass them by, and it was only a minute away from where that dynamite lay in wait, and if everything went according to plan, it would detonate towards the back, demolishing at least three cars and sending the rest toppling over.

This train's last journey. The wreckage it left would delay another transport from passing, at least for a few days.

The last car of the train finally went by.

A flash of white.

He looked up, instinctively, and for a second, he was almost too stunned to speak.

After a short clenching of his throat, he found his voice.

"Look," he muttered, and Timo's eyes flew open.

It was obvious right off that he saw it too, as he gave a strangled gasp.

A soldier, standing at the back of the train.

Watching.

They had only crouched down as a protective measure against shrapnel, but they were still very much in sight, bathed in the bright light of the full moon and visible to anyone that would happen to look. But who would have expected a soldier wide awake at this hour and standing at the back like a silent sentinel?

Unexpected. Extremely undesirable.

_Dangerous_.

And it was also obvious, as the soldier's hair shone white like a beacon in the moon, that he had seen them too. A second of horrendous silence, as the soldier's wide eyes locked onto Berwald's with excruciating clarity.

It struck him, somewhere in the back of his mind, that the soldier looked almost as though he had been caught doing something he should not have.

He imagined they shared the same look.

"_Berwald_," Timo suddenly hissed, in what could have been horror, as he reached out in panic and grabbed a handful of Berwald's sleeve, "He _sees _us!"

Indeed the soldier did, and now he was gripping the railing, squinting his eyes against the wind and night as he studied them with an intensity that was alarming. Taking them in. Maybe _memorizing _them, and he would run and pull the alarm, and be able to describe them in the morning to the furious generals.

Instead of feeling the satisfaction of Timo's touch, Berwald felt only remorse, and maybe shame, because this was _his _plan, his responsibility, and it had been his duty as a leader to make sure that every possible outcome had been considered.

That there were no unnecessary risks.

He had never considered the possibility of a solider spotting them, even more so from the back, where the explosion was not exactly a death sentence.

He had slipped up. This was not acceptable. He could not afford to put everyone in such danger.

With a burst of adrenaline, he leapt to his feet so quickly that he knocked Timo backwards, hand flying inside his coat as he reached for his gun, and when he pulled it out, a gleam of steel in the pale moon, he had every intention of shooting the soldier where he stood before he could open his mouth and sound the alarm.

A flash of panic on the soldier's face as he saw the gun.

Berwald's finger twitched on the trigger.

When the gun shot rang out, it was drowned out by something much louder, and the bullet went drastically askew as his arm flew back when the burning fuse finally reached the dynamite. It exploded with such force that Berwald was tossed back onto the ground right next to Timo, even from the distance at which they stood.

A flash of white so bright that it lit up the fields like high noon, and the middle of the train buckled up into the air as the makeshift bomb detonated beneath it.

Shards of metal. The smell of gunpowder. The heat wave was nearly unbearable.

Screeching and grinding of metal on metal, as the rest of the train collapsed onto its side and the iron crumpled in on itself from the weight and the force of collision.

Stunned silence.

After a moment of pained immobility, Berwald finally managed to push himself up out of the snow by his elbows, ears ringing and head pounding, and for a dumb, ridiculous second, his only thought was to say, 'Next time, Timo, use a little less dynamite.'

Christ.

But that strange fog of shock quickly wore off, and he dragged himself to his feet as the screeching in his ears began to subside. Reaching down, he grabbed dazed Timo's hand and yanked him gently to his feet, keeping a firm grip lest he stumble, and then he turned his head.

Looking out across the field, he saw destruction.

Just destruction.

The train was just a heap of broken metal, hardly better than scrap, a mere memory of the proud locomotive it had once been. Fire burned all around, smoke rose up and clouded the stars, turning the white moon grey.

Embers floated and the blaze roared, and everything was still.

Nothing moved.

He had made bombs before. He had killed men before. He had witnessed destruction.

Never on such a scale, however, and never having been the _cause _of it. It was overwhelming.

It was not safe to linger.

The snow around them began to melt from the unforgiving heat, and Timo came back to earth first, with fervor, and tried to tug immobile Berwald away, urgently.

"Berwald! We have to _go_! Come on!"

His feet were frozen in place, and Timo tugged him all the harder.

The smoke was pitch-black now as the stores of coal caught fire. The blaze turned into an inferno.

"_Berwald_!"

Timo was agitated and getting irritable. It was time to go.

He started to move.

As he allowed Timo to drag him away from the scene of this awful crime, another gleam of that pale light caught his eye, and once again, he looked.

He couldn't help it. He always looked.

Digging his heels into the ground so hard that Timo nearly stumbled backwards, he fell completely still, and stared.

The last few cars of the train had dislodged and fallen on their sides, perpendicular to the tracks, crashing so hard into the others that they had all but split apart. Debris and great chunks of metal littered the field, and there on the damp ground, half-buried under smoking rubble, lay a solider, and Berwald _knew_, from that same glow of his hair, that it was the same soldier that had seen them from the back of the train.

Only now his hair was lit up orange from the fire around him.

The only uncovered base.

Suddenly it was Berwald who was dragging Timo (unintentionally, but Timo just wouldn't let go of his sleeve, so he was along for the ride whether he liked it or not) across the still, burning fields and towards the wreckage.

When he was close enough to take him in, Berwald realized, as he knelt down, how _young _the soldier was.

Just a kid. Timo's age, maybe.

There was that pang again. Another horrible price of war.

So far from home...

Covered in soot and blood and unmoving, he just lied there, far away from his friends and family and alone in a land he had no business being in, and he hadn't even had a _chance_ to fight back, not a hope of defending himself, and Berwald could only bow his head, regretfully.

The same color hair. He had the same color hair as Timo.

Oh, he hadn't _wanted_ to _hurt _anyone. It wasn't this dumb kid's fault he was being shipped off to Norway. The worst wars were those fought by naïve young men.

"Is he dead?" Timo asked anxiously, hovering over from behind, and Berwald furrowed his brow, reaching down reluctantly and placing two fingers on the German's neck.

He almost didn't want to know.

What he felt there was not what he had expected.

A pulse. Strong and steady.

He was too stunned to relay this information, and instead just knelt there, head tilted thoughtfully, and now there was another problem.

Damn, dumb kid had _seen _them.

So. Now what? Could he risk leaving him here? Could he risk the possibility of being remembered so clearly that he could be sketched out like a two-bit criminal? Run the risk of being captured because of some rookie soldier's description?

Let everyone down?

So, what did he do? Shoot him? Leave him? Take him? Take him _then _shoot him, later?

What could he do?

Ah, _hell_.

Feeling somewhat overwhelmed and certainly hassled, he reached out and grabbed the soldier's collar, mindful of the fire burning nearby, and with one mighty yank he hauled the unconscious German out from beneath the twisted debris and the acrid smoke.

Timo was panicking again.

"Berwald? What are you _doing_?"

"He saw us," was his low, rumbling response, and he could hear the alarmed hiss of air through Timo's teeth as he inhaled.

...what did Timo think should be done?

"Berwald, maybe..."

Hesitation.

Timo stared at him with wide eyes of alarm and uncertainty, glancing down in intervals at the knocked out soldier, as though afraid to even go near him.

"You're not gonna _take _him, are you?"

"You'd rather I shoot him?" he asked, looking up to catch Timo's stern gaze, and even though he didn't _want_ to, he would have pulled out the gun and shot the German right there if Timo had sincerely thought it was a better idea.

If it was safer for everyone.

Many soldiers were dead, of course, of that he had no doubt. That was war. Casualties of war. That was terrible enough. But to shoot an unconscious man, as he lay helpless and unknowing on the ground, was another matter.

That was _murder_.

Sentimentality shouldn't have had a role in this decision, but there had to be a line, _somewhere_, and if it was crossed then they had only become the very thing they were trying to fight.

Timo knew it too, and finally, he shook his head.

Satisfied, Berwald took up where he had left off and continued dragging the soldier back from the wreckage, as fast as he could, as suddenly the still fields were coming to life with noise, and he could hear the soldiers that had not perished coming back into consciousness and crying out to their comrades.

Screaming and shrieking in German, rising up over the silence with hellish cacophony.

They could not linger.

Timo was having second thoughts, no doubt frightened by the soldiers, and it was with a worried, thin voice that he hissed, "Berwald, better yet, let's just leave him! He won't ever see us again. There's no way they could ever find us just because of him!"

No. Too risky. He would not put Timo in needless danger.

Besides...

"He might come in handy."

It was true. A German soldier was _invaluable_.

"Berwald!"

A prize that could be bargained for captured comrades, should any of them ever become so unlucky. A faucet of information, every so often, and if wills were weak. And, if nothing else, a German soldier could be bartered off to the other less forgiving resistance groups for ammunition and weapons (for what ominous purposes need not be considered).

Or be used as a human shield against the Germans, who would be reluctant to harm one of their own.

Invaluable.

The German was coming, whether he or Timo liked it or not.

Finally, Berwald broke Timo's gaze and managed to utter, gruffly, "Don't worry about it. Let's go."

His tone clearly indicated the settling of the matter, and Timo foundered, and after a second of silence, he nodded, and turned on his heel.

With a grunt, Berwald lifted the German up from the ground and slung him unceremoniously over his shoulder, regained his footing, and, with silent Timo leading the way with sure steps, they fled into the night, leaving behind them fire and death.

Oh, God, let it be worth it. He hoped it would be worth it.

He longed for the end of this war.

War brought out the worst in people.

The horizon glowed orange, through a haze of smoke. A midnight sunrise.

Ahead, Timo was grumbling irritably under his breath and had started stomping.

Too late.

No time.

There was no time now to dwell on his aching conscience. There were more pressing matters at hand. Like what he would do with this goddamn burden on his shoulder. Thinking about it made his head hurt worse than the fuckin' explosion had; trouble. Nothing but trouble. Damn it all to hell.

Dumb kid.

Fine time he had chosen for stargazing.


	3. Don't Take Your Guns To Town

**Chapter 3**

**Don't Take Your Guns To Town**

The town was quiet in the dawn.

Snow was falling here, as it often did even in these spring months, the still river was flowing calmly, connecting miles down into the lake, and the forest pines were tall and covered with snow.

Nothing stirred.

The sun began to break over the horizon, turning the sky a pale pink above the tree line. In the west, the stars were still visible. The moon was fading.

The town was quiet in the dawn.

Actually, the town was _always _quiet.

Small and scarcely populated, Duved was hardly more than a ghost town, nestled deep in the forest and at the base of the mountains, isolated and inconspicuous, and that had always been for the best, and it was especially true now, as the car lurched through the snow-covered streets, the whirring of the engine the only sound around, and Berwald was grateful that no one had risen yet to see them pass by.

Not in these circumstances.

Drumming his fingers on the steering wheel in agitation, he glanced over at Timo, who sat twisted in his seat, head rested atop his folded arm as he kept an eagle eye on the backseat, his other hand resting loosely upon the gun tucked in his belt.

It was no great surprise _why_, considering that the backseat was presently occupied by a German soldier.

An unconscious one, certainly, unarmed and injured, but a danger nonetheless.

He lay there, still and silent, limp and unmoving, a fallen hand brushing the carpeted floor of the car as the vehicle lurched this way and that, matted hair dark with blood, his uniform torn and stained, skin covered with ash and soot, and Berwald could see that the tips of the platinum strands of hair had been singed from the merciless heat.

Put through the wringer, but still a threat.

Every so often, on the long journey back to base, he had let out a deep moan, and his limp fingers would twitch as though he were on the verge of coming back into consciousness, and Timo would start up in fright and grab the handle of the gun and Berwald tensed up, alarmed.

In the end, the soldier only fell still, and never awoke.

That was a blessing.

The smell of leather was mingled with coal and the metallic aroma of blood.

Blood. His shirt was stained with the German's blood. Lifting his eyes to the rearview mirror, Berwald could not help but furrow his brow, and his agitation was mixed with a mounting sense of dread.

This might have been a mistake. Maybe he shoulda shot the kid. The farther into town they got, the more he couldn't help but imagine the worst outcomes.

How things could go _wrong_.

Because they had been driving for _hours_, and it was possible that maybe Timo would nod off without him noticing, and maybe the German would wake up, and after a moment of quiet observation, he would stealthily reach forward and take the gun from sleeping Timo's belt and shoot them both before Berwald could react. Or maybe they would make it to town alright, but the German would wake up when he was alone with Timo, and Timo might be overpowered and shot and left to die, and the German would flee before Berwald ever came back, lost to the winds and Timo would be gone forever. Or maybe the German would escape his bonds and appear above the bed in the middle of the night, hair glowing white in an inferno of moonlight as he turned Berwald's own gun against him—

"Berwald?"

He started, and when he turned his head, Timo was watching him lethargically.

On the brink of falling asleep.

The mists of dawn blanketed the houses as they came closer.

"You alright?" Timo finally asked, eyes bleary and voice scratchy, and he was smiling, despite it all.

Timo always tried to smile.

Berwald could only nod, and turn his eyes back to the road, taking his mind from his dark thoughts. It was better not to consider such circumstances. He would keep a close watch over the solider until he had found a solution. He would make damn well sure that he didn't make any more mistakes.

He would let no harm come from this.

Timo's gaze upon him was comforting.

He shouldn't worry so much. Everything would be alright. He could figure this out, he _could_. He could justify this.

..._eventually_.

He gripped the steering wheel as the snow drifted down grey in the pale light of dawn, and when they rounded a corner and the house was suddenly visible in the distance, the drive full of snow, he heaved a sigh of relief.

It felt good to be back.

He longed to run inside and wash himself clean of the soot and blood and the smell of coal and gunpowder, and try to scrub himself free of the horrible guilt and shame.

Blood.

Pulling into the drive on the side of the other frozen car, as the snow scraped against the bumper and crunched under the tires, he cut the ignition, and as soon as the silence filled the air, he leaned his head back into the seat and fell still in exhaustion.

He could have gone to sleep right there.

The chill of the cold morning settled in.

He thought he heard a distant hissing.

Time slowed. The echo of a faint explosion in his ears.

Blood. Screams.

A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder and he jumped terribly, heart racing in alarm, but when he looked over through blurry eyes, it was only Timo.

Not the German.

"Come on," Timo whispered, gently, "Let's get inside."

Pushing his door open with effort, Timo stepped out, and stood there in the snow, waiting for Berwald to regain control of his limbs. He did so quickly, forcing his door to open against the pressure of the snow surrounding it, leaping out and sinking almost knee-high immediately, and when Timo was at his side, he wrenched open the backseat and grabbed the German by the shoulders, dragging him out.

Regaining his balance, he tossed him over his shoulder as he had before, and waited for Timo to take the lead.

He did, silently and carefully, sneaking up to the front door without a sound and fumbling the key into the lock. A click, and Timo pushed the door open with sure fingers, holding it open so that Berwald could haul the catch inside.

A second of uncertainty in the quiet living room, and then Timo finally whispered, somewhat reluctantly, "Well. Let's just use my room for now."

He nodded, unable to do much else, following Timo as they crept through the room and down the hall. He glanced up past the man on his shoulder to the staircase, taking as much care as possible that he would not awaken those above.

Annoyances were best avoided.

He could feel the warm trickle of blood creeping down his back as it soaked through his shirt, and resisted the urge to squirm.

Maybe the kid wouldn't even pull through. A lot of work for nothing.

He stepped silently, and kept his breathing soft.

Everyone was asleep.

But in this little house...

He shifted positions awkwardly as he struggled to maintain his balance and make it through the hall without thunking the soldier's already bloody head upon the wall. In this little house, practically any noise could be heard. A floorboard suddenly gave a mighty creak beneath him as he took a gentle step forward, and he suppressed a wince, glancing upward in sync with Timo, who ushered him through all the more quickly, a look of apprehension upon his face.

Somehow, even though he was home, he still felt like some kind of criminal. Sneaking around here and there, seeking to keep his presence hidden.

Mercifully, they reached Timo's room without incident, and when Timo leaned in and pushed the door open, he cringed at the sound of the squeaking hinges. A hesitation, and then Timo pushed it open fully, and they slipped inside.

Berwald felt the first twinge of relief.

So far, so good.

A dull, heavy thud, as he tossed the unconscious German upon the bed none-too-gently, and Berwald was quick to lean above him and pin him down by the shoulders (just in case) as Timo rummaged here and there for something to tie him down with. Finally, with nothing available and apparently reluctant to leave Berwald alone with the soldier, Timo unclasped his belt and slipped it from the loops, kneeling down and swiftly tying the German's bruised wrist to the iron bar beneath the mattress. A firm, but not completely unyielding position, and if the soldier did wake up, he would be able to sit upright instead of being forced to constantly lie.

Timo, always considerate.

To Germans, at least. A Red would have never entered this house alive.

Now that the soldier was at least partially secure, Timo straightened up, and said, quickly, "I'll go find some rope or something. I'll be right back!"

He darted to the door, and Berwald was left alone, one heavy hand pressing into the German's chest to keep him pinned.

A moment of dazed exhaustion, as the night caught up to him, and finally he allowed himself a slight reprieve, and settled down on the edge of the bed, covering his face with a rough palm.

He smelled of gunpowder. Metal.

He was tired.

Laying down and falling into unconsciousness would be a blessing.

Darkness.

The pressure he exerted upon the soldier began to slacken. He could feel himself tottering on the verge of sleep.

Calm. Quiet. No explosion. No screams.

Just silence.

He could nod off, just for a minute. Just to rest his eyes.

A sudden, horrible vision of the German starting awake and taking his gun right out from under him as he sat there unawares.

The echo of a gunshot.

He wanted to _sleep_.

Couldn't risk it, and it was with regret that he let his hand drop and refocused his blurry attention on the soldier below. Twisting at the waist, he peered down with a severe brow, and observed the damage.

The pillow was already wet with blood.

Probably should have tossed him on the floor.

Leaning in and blinking forcefully to clear his vision, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and scrutinized. He wasn't sure whether or not he should be relieved.

The blood looked alarming at first, dripping and soaking into everything, but it really wasn't as bad as it seemed; a gash on his forehead, a few cuts on his scalp. A deep puncture in his upper arm. Probably suffering a concussion. Scraped and bruised.

Bloody, but not gravely injured.

Kid would be fine. Unhappy, and probably mad as hell, but just fine. Well, he wouldn't be too much of a threat after such a great blow to the head, and he would probably be too sore to move for a few days.

Favorable time for deciding what they would do with him.

With a heavy sigh, he turned his eyes up to the window, the drawn curtains allowing him a view outside.

The sun was breaking over the mountains. Pink mixed with gold. The aurora was fading. Snow drifted gently down. The first rays of the sun gleamed off the white peaks. Little houses here and there, nestled at the base of the mountain range, some of them already awake and chimneys smoking, golden lights glowing out from the pale mists of dawn like beacons.

It was quiet here. Never any trouble. Just a little mountain town, with hardly a hundred residents, surrounded on all sides by either forests or mountains or expensive cabins that were rented out to rich tourists who came to explore the ideal slopes. Everyone knew everyone. Everyone minded their own business. Serene. An ideal place to live, especially for someone like him, who avoided society diligently. A pretty little town.

Never any trouble.

Until now.

And this house, just as pretty and normal as the rest, had turned into something that was not so peaceful and not so serene. Silent danger.

The town need not know of the things that went on in this house. Those who proudly declared themselves freedom fighters amongst friends maintained the mask of normalcy in the face of the public.

To bring a German soldier here, dressed in his neat uniform, iron eagle boasted upon his breast, clutching in its talons a swastika, was ascending to a new level of recklessness.

He had kept a low profile in this town. So many trials he had passed, so many dangers and so many risks, so many brushes with catastrophe, and no one had ever even looked at him twice.

Now this dumb kid came along and put his safety here on the line.

...maybe he should have shot him.

Footsteps in the hall.

He straightened up, recognizing Timo's light steps. He watched the door, expectantly, but instead of the click of the doorknob, he heard something else.

A voice.

"What's going on?"

His heart lurched in alarm.

Their stealth had not been enough, apparently, for Timo's steps had stopped, and from behind the door, Berwald heard a familiar, obnoxious voice suddenly say, eagerly, "Hey, Timo! You're back! I was wonderin' who was creepin' around down here."

Stiffening up and feeling a burning of something that he could not quite place within his chest, Berwald bolted upright and followed Timo's lead and removed his belt, securing the German's other wrist to the bed frame and stepping over to the door, pushing it gently open and poking his head out as inconspicuously as possible.

What he saw there burned him.

Timo stood there, twisting a short rope restlessly between his fingers, and he was blocked from entering the hall at the staircase by a man taller than he was, who leaned against one wall lethargically and extended his arm to rest upon the other so that there would be no passing. Timo made no attempt to pass by, smiling in that friendly manner that he always did, staring up at the man before him like nothing was really out of the ordinary.

Nothing really was.

Because Magnus, tall and unkempt, his pale, messy hair sticking out in every which direction from too much sleep and not enough gel and combing, was _always _splayed out somewhere or another, leaning this way and that and shifting his weight here and there, his whole stance dripping with confidence.

Magnus.

Berwald's least favorite member of their unspoken group, if, of course, it could really be called that. There was not much organization; just a few unhappy souls brought together in a time of war to fight for what they believed in.

As Timo had fled occupied Finland, so Magnus had fled occupied Denmark.

Maybe Magnus had things he believed in. Maybe Magnus fought as hard as anyone else.

That didn't mean that Berwald could stomach looking at him. That didn't mean he had to like Magnus. There was no written rule that rebels had to be _friends, _and he wasn't going to waste time pretending to be, either.

Grabbing the doorknob in his hand, he straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, and when he yanked it open and took a step forward into the hall, Magnus' head wrenched over and his gaze snapped up.

A moment of immobility, as Magnus' eyes widened in what could have been shock and he half-turned, and then a sharpening and darkening of his face, and there was no doubt in Berwald's mind that his look was saying, 'Why the great flying fuck are you coming out of Timo's room?'

He took a moment to revel in Magnus' discomfort.

A twitching of Magnus' stance, but before harsh words could be uttered, Timo came forward and looked past him, catching Berwald's eyes, and saying, loudly, "Yeah, we just got back a few minutes ago."

Silence.

Finally, Magnus relented, refocusing his attention back to Timo.

"Right! Yeah. Anyway, I'm glad you're back."

Leaning against the wall in an intentional mockery of Magnus, Berwald crossed his arms above his chest and glowered at them from behind.

He hated Magnus.

Timo's frequent glances at him prevented him from opening his mouth. He would not make a scene. He would not upset Timo. It wasn't ever worth it.

Magnus took a step towards Timo, reaching up and straightening his flipped, wrinkled collar and brushing the sleep from himself as the rising sun began to stream through the curtains, and finally he smiled.

"So! How'd it go? Oh! How was your bomb? Alright? I know you were excited about making it." Before Timo could even answer any of the quick questions, Magnus dropped a large hand down upon his shoulder, adding, eagerly, "I'm glad you're alright. I was worried about you."

Timo opened his mouth, a smile upon his face, and it was only because he could not bear to hear his response that Berwald took a step forward and interrupted, less than politely, "He can take care of himself."

Magnus turned a severe eye to him and opened his mouth, but before the words of aggression could be spoken, he froze still. His eyes narrowed, and suddenly his look was not so harsh, and he asked, almost in alarm, "Say, what happened? Is all of that your blood?"

Berwald was caught in Magnus' gaze in a moment of incomprehension, but when he looked down, dumbly, he remembered that his shirt was soaked through with blood. Magnus had finally realized it. Shifting his weight, Berwald finally looked back up, and stayed silent.

The hall was still.

Finally, Timo began, anxiously and reluctantly, "Right! Ah, about that."

Timo shuffled this way and that as Magnus' unyielding gaze fell upon him.

Berwald could only wait for the inevitable.

"There was a, _ah_, a _setback_. We did run into a little...problem."

A strange silence, and Magnus repeated, "A problem?"

Timo's forehead gleamed with a cold sweat.

"Ah... Well, you see, it's, ah..."

Struggling for words and finding none, Timo finally gave a strangled, helpless sigh, and pointed to his bedroom door.

And here it was.

Game over.

Magnus tensed his shoulders and looked back and forth between them, brow low and suddenly wide awake, and it was clear from the expression on his face that he was still awaiting an explanation. But Berwald had no words for him and Timo had lost his nerve, and finally, Magnus crept towards the door.

For a moment, he just stood there, staring at it as though he were almost afraid to see what lay in wait on the other side. A glance over his shoulder, and he met Berwald's gaze.

After a second of intense, unfriendly staring, Magnus finally huffed in a great breath and pushed open the door.

Berwald waited patiently for the explosion.

Tick tock, tick tock, and so forth.

Magnus was just another bomb, after all.

It didn't take long.

A shriek.

"_CHRIST_!"

A second of silence, and then the door slammed so hard it probably left a hole in the wall, and Magnus came skidding out, bare feet sliding on the wooden floor and absolute hell in his eyes.

Berwald only stared straight at him, trying to appear supremely unconcerned, despite the racing of his heart. Timo was shifting anxiously at his side, squirming in discomfort and maybe guilt.

It wasn't Timo's fault.

It had been his idea.

Magnus' wide, alarmed blue eyes settled onto his own, and if the circumstances hadn't been so serious, Berwald might have burst into laughter at Magnus' appearance.

Standing there, mouth half-open in complete shock, eyes impossibly wide, messy, crumpled clothing hanging off of him, his too-long pant legs pooling around his bare feet, hair sticking out to high heaven, and he looked them back and forth in turn, sputtering incomprehensible words as he pointed dramatically to the door.

"Wha—what..."

After a struggle, Magnus found his voice.

Loudly.

"What the _hell _is _THAT_? What were you thinking? What's in God's name were you thinking? We don't take prisoners! We don't _do _this shit! How could you have brought him here? We said we wouldn't do anything to risk gettin' found out! How could you bring a _soldier _here? You should have _shot _him! What were you _THINKING_?"

A few more incomprehensible growls and hisses, and then Magnus fell still, attempting to stare Berwald down. Berwald, to whom his entire tirade had been directed, as he had chosen to neatly ignore Timo during his outburst.

Not surprising.

Magnus would not blame Timo for anything as long as Berwald was around to take the brunt of his outbursts.

Unmoving and impassive, Berwald met his gaze, and said nothing. Let Magnus shout. What was done was done. No changing it.

Regaining a bit of his nerve, Timo came forward, and his voice was gentle and soothing as he said, carefully, "Hey, calm down! It'll—It'll be alright! We'll figure out what we're gonna do with him. Everything will be alright. Don't worry about it. Nobody will ever know. We'll be careful."

An agitated silence, as Magnus held stiff arms down at his sides and looked for all the world as though he was about to punch somebody (Berwald) in the face, but when Timo took another step forward and placed a hand upon his upper arm, he finally straightened up, and furrowed his brow.

"Whose idea was it?"

A silence.

Timo tried to laugh it off. "What does it matter, now?"

"Whose idea was it?" Magnus asked again, sternly and refusing to be deflected, and Timo looked over his shoulder, casting Berwald a helpless stare.

Finally, he pushed off the wall, standing straight in the hall, and said, simply, "Mine."

Magnus raised a hand to his forehead, scoffing spitefully. "Shoulda known! Only _you _woulda thought this would be _fine_. I would _never_—"

"You're right," he interrupted, as his ire rose ever higher, "You would never. Between the two of us, I'm the only one that's ever _thought_."

Timo sent him a stern look. Timo hated it when they fought.

But God, he couldn't _help_ it.

He hated Magnus.

Magnus' shoulders stiffened, and for a moment his foot raised as though he were going to rush forward, but in the end, he brushed off the insult neatly and turned attention back to the problem that was tied to Timo's bed.

"That's not the—You shouldn't have _brought _him here!" he cried, angrily, as he stomped his foot on the floor. "What if something happens? It'll be _your _fault! Didn't you even think about this at all? What if something goes wrong? What then? This wasn't _your _decision to make!"

Berwald could not help but notice that Magnus' angry gaze kept twitching over to Timo, and he could clearly see that the harsh look said something along the lines of, 'How could you have let him do this?'

Timo just sent him a half-hearted glare in return, perhaps retorting, 'What could _I _do about it?'

Berwald hated it when they communicated silently with just looks.

Magnus, always so carefree and confident, was worried.

An uncomfortable thought nagged him. Worried for Timo? Maybe Magnus was alarmed because a German soldier in close vicinity meant a possibility of harm to Timo, and Magnus liked Timo. And _that _thought was somehow worse than the thought of the German soldier waking up in the dark night and creeping through the hall with a Luger that he had tucked away.

Oh, he _hated _Magnus.

"Last time I checked," he finally said, voice low and commanding, "_I _was in charge here. You don't like it? Then go."

Let him go.

Timo was watching Magnus with a furrowed brow and a look of warning, and Magnus seemed to be struggling to obey Timo's silent command, but in the end Magnus obeyed _no one_, and finally he could contain his voice no longer.

"The last time _I _checked," he spat, as Timo shook his head in disappointment, "we didn't _have _a leader! We're autonomous, remember? You only think you're in charge because they don't say anything to the contrary! We don't have a leader. We make decisions together. And if anybody is gonna be in charge, it should be _me_, because you just fuck everything up! You should have shot him! What's the matter with you?"

Berwald wished that he would leave.

God, let him leave. No one needed Magnus here.

A moment of animus staring, and finally Timo came forward and stepped in between them, brow low and eyes stern.

"That's enough."

How did this always happen? Magnus opened his loud mouth and Berwald always took the bait, and they were at each others' throats, so focused on _hurting _each other that they hardly ever stopped to think if they were hurting someone else, and it was always Timo who was finally forced to step in between them, risking possible injury, to pry them apart with anger and exasperation.

Timo, the parent to rowdy children.

Shameful.

Berwald finally fell back, and ended the confrontation. He did not like conceding, but Magnus was simply not worth the disappointment on Timo's face. Let Magnus have the last word, and earn Timo's disdain for it.

He would not.

Straightening up and lifting his chin, he nodded his head and turned quickly on his heel, stalking off towards the door in search of cool air, and despite his victory, Magnus cried after him, "What? Don't you have anything to say?"

Prideful, boastful, arrogant fool that he was.

"_Magnus_!" came Timo's angry hiss, and Berwald hated hearing that name in Timo's voice.

Magnus just wasn't worth it.

"Yeah," he finally grumbled as he reached for the doorknob. Berwald had _many _things he would like to say, but he finally summed up with a snappy, "Go comb your goddamn hair."

* * *

><p>"Don't let him get to you. He's all talk. Hot air, you know."<p>

The pale sun was rising steadily in the sky.

"Yeah. I know."

The snow had stopped, and now Berwald sat here at this little wooden picnic table that he and Timo had pieced together the first few weeks here, drumming his fingers irritably on the top as the man across from him stared at him tranquilly.

White-blond hair smooth and dusted with snow, dark, dreamy indigo calm and placid, Lukas was a striking contrast to loud, vociferous Magnus, and Berwald wondered why they were friends.

"Why did you bring him back, anyway?" Lukas suddenly asked, hands folded neatly upon the damp, cold wood, and Berwald shrugged a restless shoulder.

"He saw us. Didn't think it'd be good to leave him there."

Calmly, Lukas nodded his head, and raised a finger to his chin, thoughtfully.

"I understand. Well, then. Don't worry about it. You did what you thought was right. Magnus just loves drama. I'll talk to him about it."

For all the good it would do.

Berwald nodded nonetheless, and fell still, turning to watch the quiet forests.

So peaceful here. He hoped he had not ruined it.

A quick tap of a slender finger upon his hand. He looked over, and Lukas was leaning forward, watching him with what could have been curiosity.

It didn't take long to find out what he wanted.

"So," Lukas finally asked, cool voice barely eager, "How'd it go? Did the fuse light up fast? Did Timo make me proud?"

Berwald narrowed his eyes as he remembered with clarity the massive force of the explosion, and was suddenly suspicious.

_Use a little less dynamite next time._

Yeah right. Not if Lukas ever had his way.

"I should've known," he grumbled, and Lukas placed his chin in his palm, thoroughly unconcerned.

"I guess that means 'yes'. I only _suggested _making an impression. Didn't think he'd really do it."

"Two sticks less would have been sufficient."

He should have known that Timo's over-explosive bomb had been the result of Lukas' 'suggestions'. Lukas, a _real _expert at bomb making, had a taste for the dramatic as much as he ever accused Magnus of having, and of course he would have _hinted _to Timo, in that hypnotic voice of his, that bigger truly was better.

"Two less?" Lukas finally murmured dreamily, after a thoughtful silence, and Berwald could only watch him with interest as he rested his hands behind his head and leaned back on the bench, in danger of toppling backwards, and finally he said, idly, "I'd've used one more."

Right.

"I'm sure you would've," was his cool response, and Berwald pulled himself to his feet and turned on his heel and walked off, hands tucked in his pockets as Lukas stared up at the white sky silently.

The crazy son of a bitch probably would have struggled with the urge to shove about _three _more sticks of dynamite in that bundle. If it had been _his _mission, he probably would have vaporized the whole damn field in a flash of fire. And that dumb kid would be just a pile of ashes.

"Next time, let me do it!" Lukas cried from behind, as he made towards the front door.

"We'll see."

Sometimes, Berwald wondered if Lukas was just really...

"I'm always around, you know. Boom, boom."

...a sociopath. Or a psychopath. He wasn't sure of the difference, not exactly, but there was definitely more than one screw loose up in Lukas' head.

Then again, that was what made him interesting, Berwald supposed, and even though it seemed strange, that cool detachment made Lukas one of the most valuable men they had. He had the ability to analyze and rationalize and make cold, hard decisions, something that Magnus lacked and that Timo possessed but was unpracticed in, and Berwald had choked about shooting the soldier, hadn't he?

Lukas would have shot him.

Lost in his thoughts and seeking to avoid humanity for a while, yet too agitated to sleep, Berwald slipped up the stairs and into the bathroom, and as soon as he flipped the lock, he sank down onto the closed toilet and buried his face in his hands.

He was tired of this whole mess.

War. Stress. It couldn't end soon enough. Bombs and soldiers, trains and death. Blood. Fighting.

When he wasn't fighting the enemy, he was fighting amongst his own.

In the end, he was alone.

Alone.

It was alright. He preferred to be alone. Company created problems, it seemed.

Pulling himself to his weary feet, he pulled the blood-stained shirt over his shoulders and tossed it aside, follow quickly by his pants and boots, sitting his glasses carefully upon the counter, and when he turned the knob and the water ahead came to life, he leapt in eagerly.

He washed the night away. The water ran crimson into the drain.

Time passed.

The burn of anger began to fade as the water soothed his frazzled nerves. The soldier's blood was gone. He felt better.

It was only the remembrance of the sleeping danger that forced his feet to move along, and he reluctantly left the comfort of the shower and came back into the cool air. It would be prudent to make sure the German was still out cold.

Mussing his damp hair with the towel, he reached into the cabinet and pulled out fresh clothes, and when he put his glasses back on, he felt his shaken confidence rebuilding itself steadily.

Everything would be alright.

Pulling the door open, he made for the stairs, and when he hit the floor below, he realized he was not alone. Lukas was there before the door, dressed neatly and heavily weighed down by a pack, and when he saw Berwald, he sent him a nod of acknowledgement.

Where was Lukas off to now? He never told anyone where he was going, or when he was coming back. What he was up to.

One thing Berwald couldn't stand about Lukas.

"Where are you going?" Berwald finally asked, and after a second of silence, Lukas grabbed the doorknob, calm and serene.

"Out," was his simple response, and with that, he pushed the door open and disappeared.

Berwald stood still, and he could only imagine, from the huge backpack that Lukas was hauling, that 'out' meant somewhere close to the Norwegian border, and he was probably going to use his citizenship to get close enough to one of the German strongholds or checkpoints to blow it all to hell.

Well, he trusted Lukas to go alone.

The whir of the engine from the second car outside.

The cracking of the snow as it broke beneath the vehicle, and Lukas was gone.

With nothing else to do and not wanting to bump unwittingly into Magnus, Berwald retreated back into the hall, hands tucked in his pocket and brow low, and headed towards Timo's bedroom.

When he stepped inside, he realized Timo was already there, sitting before the bed in a chair, book in hand. He looked up when Berwald entered, marking his page, and smiled.

Berwald inclined his head to the soldier, who still lied there immobile and still, and he asked, "Hasn't woke up yet?"

Timo shook his head, voice a whisper when he said, "Nah. I don't think it'll be much longer though. He's been moving a little bit."

Behind the constant smile, Timo's eyes were tired, the dark circles beneath clearly visible. Immediately, Berwald came over and plucked the book from his hands, pointing to the door.

"Out. Go to sleep. I'll watch him."

Timo did not need to be told twice, and pulled himself to his feet quickly, seeming more than eager to actually be able to lie down and rest.

The gentle click of the door as he left, no doubt to usurp Berwald's empty bed, and after a second of dumb standing, Berwald fell into the chair, and held the book in his lap.

He took the time to observe. He almost smiled.

Timo had tidied up.

The German's pale hair had been wiped through to free it off blood and ash, the cuts had been either stitched up or patched, and the bloodied pillow sat off on the floor in the corner, a new one resting beneath their captive's head. His face had been cleaned of the soot, and he looked less frightening now that he was pale and still and free of the blood that had stained him.

But the uniform was still there, no doubt, torn and mottled, hidden beneath the blanket that Timo had thrown above him.

The hastily tied belts had been replaced by strong rope.

Outside the sun was high. Noon.

Dumbly, Berwald looked down at the book in his lap, and felt a twinge of something he couldn't quite place. An old book of Finnish fairytales.

Berwald opened the book to the page where it had been marked, and observed the colorful illustrations.

Mikko and the fox.

Snorting, he glanced up at the unconscious German, and said lowly to him, even though he knew he did not hear, "Was he reading this to you?"

It wouldn't surprise him. Kids.

Kid Timo could read the kid soldier a fairytale if he wanted to.

No harm.

Closing the book and clasping it securely within his arms, he leaned back into the chair and stared quietly at the German, tapping his foot absently.

The hours passed. Time always fled far too quickly.

His stare became unfocused, falling on the end of the bed as his head dropped down a bit. The high sun was ever lowering. He struggled to keep his eyes open.

Still, as the bright sun turned orange in the afternoon, low above the mountains, the soldier did not awaken.

But Timo did, when night was near, and Berwald had not realized that he had been dozing until a hand fell upon his shoulder. He jumped and looked up in alarm, and it was Timo smiling down at him.

"Did he wake up yet?"

"No."

"Good. Listen, Magnus went after Lukas just to keep an eye out. You know how he gets."

He nodded.

The more time that Magnus was out of the house, the better.

"Do you want me to take over so you can lay down?"

Berwald shook his head, turning his eyes to the bed, continuing his staring contest with absolutely no one, and Timo retreated with a soft, "Alright. I'll check in later."

He nodded, dazedly, and even though he knew he shouldn't have, as soon as the door shut and Timo was gone, he closed his eyes, and was out like a light.

His head fell down, chin tucking into his collarbone. Exhaustion was too strong to fight.

The sun disappeared behind the mountains. Evening faded into a gentle night.

His fingers twitched around the book as he faded in and out of REM. Behind the blanket of sleep and night, he thought he heard noises.

Moonlight streamed in through the window. Shadows jumped across the room.

A loud, dull thud.

With a sharp intake of breath, Berwald bolted awake, looking around in a bleary daze.

Darkness. The air was cold.

His eyes began to adjust, and when the room came back into focus and the shock of sleep was shaken off, he realized that the book had slipped from his lap and onto the floor.

That was it. There was no danger. The German was still there, in the same spot. His hair was easy to see, glowing white in the moonlight.

Squinting to clear his vision, Berwald looked up at the clock on the wall.

Midnight.

Then he heard that noise again, clearly, and he realized that it was the rustling of sheets. Alarmed and wide awake with adrenaline, he reached over to the side and flipped the lamp on, casting the room in a dim, golden light.

With it, he could see that the soldier was moving. Barely, just the twitching of sleep and the rolling of discomfort, but moving nonetheless.

Berwald furrowed his brow, and watched.

His chest ached with weariness, but he leaned forward and gripped the arms of the chair, ready to spring into action at any point should it become necessary.

The twitching began to intensify. Tossing. Deep, low groans of pain. The German was hovering on the verge of consciousness. He would wake up at any moment.

Berwald waited.

And then Lukas made an appearance, if only in spirit, and the silence of the cool, calm landscape was shattered by a distant explosion (now _that _was a bomb!) so powerful even from _so _far away that the house shook, just a bit.

But it was enough, the push needed, and with a deep, strangled gasp, the German awoke and bolted upright.

A second of silence. Wide, ice-blue eyes locked onto his own for the second time.

Berwald tensed and prepared for the tirade and the struggle against the ropes, but it never came.

The German opened his mouth, but before he could even utter a word, he broke off and bowed his head, jerking his wrists in a vain attempt to reach up and cradle his temples. He could not reach, tethered too close to the metal bars, and finally fell still, bent at the waist and hanging his head down as far as he could, squinting his eyes shut and twitching, and it was obvious to Berwald that he was in too much pain to even think, let alone speak.

Silence.

Reaching out, Berwald turned the lamp and dimmed the light as low as it would go, to spare the soldier needless discomfort, and waited, patiently.

He hoped that Lukas had not run into any similar problems.

Minutes of gathering himself against the concussion, and then finally the soldier managed to raise his head, his pale, bleary eyes turning up to Berwald after a moment of searching.

Incomprehension. Confusion.

He spoke then, and his voice was so deep and rough and scratchy that Berwald was momentarily shocked that it belonged to someone so pale and young.

"Who are you?"

Berwald sat still.

The German squinted his eyes in pain, and his gaze quickly fell down to his bound wrists. A gentle tug, and when he found himself completely immobile, he furrowed his brow and tilted his head, and a low, throaty whine of frustration escaped.

"What did I do?" came the next question, and this time it was Berwald who tilted his head in confusion, when the German turned hazy eyes back over to him and said, strangely, "I didn't jump. I didn't. Untie me. I didn't jump."

His look was almost guilty, and Berwald realized that the German might have been conscious, alright, but he was _not _awake. The concussion had knocked his senses out.

He tugged weakly at the ropes, and Berwald finally said, roughly, "Lay down."

The words felt strange on his tongue, clumsy German that he hadn't spoken for a while, and it had always been easier for him to understand it than to speak it.

For a moment, the soldier only stared at him, and then his eyes darkened and he hung his head again, and Berwald could see that he was slipping back into unconsciousness.

That was for the best. In the morning, he would gather everyone up and hold a thorough conversation about this man's fate.

"Lay down. Sleep."

He obeyed, and as the German fell back down, drifting back into darkness, Berwald heard him mutter to himself, blearily and dazedly, "Feel like I've been hit by a train..."

Berwald only tilted his head, staring at the soldier as he fell still, and murmured, thoughtfully, "Mm."

It had taken quite a bit of self-control not to throw out, 'You don't say?'

He sat there for a few minutes, to make sure that the soldier was truly asleep, and when he was satisfied, he leaned back into his chair and picked the book up from the floor.

He was grateful that he had been spared the outburst, at least this time. He was too tired now to deal with a thrashing Wehrmacht.

The next time the German awoke, however, when the haze in his head cleared up, things would not go so smoothly. There would probably be hell to pay.

But for now...

The German tossed restlessly, unable to turn for his bonds.

Berwald's mind wandered in the midst of darkness.

Lukas would be on his way back. Magnus too.

The dark night began to turn pale blue in the breaking dawn.

The air grew ever cooler.

He dreamed of the end of the war, when the Axis and the Soviets were pushed back into their own lands, and everything was peaceful and calm, there were no more explosions, no more soldiers, and on the last day before Timo went home, he grabbed his hand and asked him if he would stay in Sweden for just a little longer, and Timo smiled and nodded and then reached up and threw his arms around his neck—

"Berwald!"

He started awake, and his dream faded into a drab reality, where the war was still raging, and there were still explosions and people dying, and Timo was only here because there was nowhere else to go, and instead of Timo's hand within his own, there was a German soldier in the bed. Timo smiled at Magnus, not at him.

Reality stung.

Forcing himself from his daze, he turned to the door, where Timo stood, but this time the look upon his face was frightening, and Berwald sat up in alarm, heart racing.

"What's wrong?"

A silence, as Timo stepped in and closed the door behind him, and he looked scared, and disheartened. Maybe completely crestfallen.

Finally, he opened his mouth, and when he spoke, his words were not what Berwald had hoped for.

"Magnus just called."

His heart sank in dread.

Timo's voice was a mournful whisper.

"They caught Lukas."

Deathly silence.

Their eyes fell upon the sleeping German at the same time.

The dawn was breaking.


	4. In The Jailhouse Now

**Chapter 4**

**In The Jailhouse Now**

Bring the Devil in your boat, and you must row him to shore.

That was what his grandmother had told him, at any rate, whenever he had wanted to act tough as a child and had set off to cut the firewood before realizing how hard it was and trying to give up. A stern pinch on his arm and a gentle shove back towards the axe had deterred him, and she had only pointed towards the uncut lumber and said, 'Berwald, bring the Devil in your boat, and you must row him to shore.'

You started this on your own, so finish it.

By God, he had started this mess. He would see it through.

But he hadn't ever wanted any of _this_ to happen. Not this. And hadn't she told him too not to meddle in lesser men's wars?

It had just been him in the beginning, and things had been simple. Black and white. Then Timo had come along, bringing with him a shade of grey, and then a spur of the moment, daring run on the Norwegian border had led them to Lukas, and then Lukas had come back one day with Magnus, and now _everything_ was so much more complicated.

Now he had brought back the solider. Now Lukas was in trouble.

They had been in trouble before, God knew, but they had always come out of it, rising successfully from the ashes and taking off right where they had left off.

Lukas, over-confident and so mysterious, had been caught before here and there, and he had always wriggled out of it one way or another, but he had never been caught by such an organized and trained system like the Wehrmacht. Magnus had gotten pinched before, in Soviet Finland with a stack of guns. But he had gotten out of that too, with smooth talking and a loose wallet. He and Timo had had close scrapes, but never any real threat of capture.

Berwald had tried to protect them from such things, laying out careful rules and guidelines. Those rules had kept all four of them alive.

Now he had broken one of them.

"What are we gonna do about this?"

This time, his failure to comply with his own rules might have been a lucky break.

"Dunno," was all he finally muttered, after a silence, as he paced the halls back and forth with a heavy heart and churning mind, and even Timo so close beside of him could not pull him from his despondency.

Timo's brow lowered, and he gave a quiet sigh, perhaps disappointed at his lack of cunning ideas.

He couldn't seem to think.

The soldier was still out cold. The soldier, who may have been a blessing in disguise. A way out of this predicament.

"We'll talk about it when he gets back."

_He _being Magnus, and Timo understood, nodding his head.

He had made a risky decision by himself once. It was better to speak about making another one in conference. War was no time to be proud.

Sorry, gram. Too late now to go back. Push forward. He had gotten too far into this war of others to return.

Timo wandered off ahead of him, and he turned his head up dumbly towards the window. The sun was breaking over the mountains.

Where was Lukas now? Was he still alive? If so, could they get close enough to get him back?

He felt slightly ill.

Lukas was strange and dreamy and witty and smart, but he wasn't immortal, and he wasn't immune to injury. None of them were. Maybe it was too late.

The slam of the door broke him from his dreary thoughts. A familiar voice. Timo's relieved greeting.

Magnus had returned.

He rounded on his heel, and when he saw Magnus there, slumped in the doorframe, head bowed in exhaustion and misery, he felt only a twinge of agitation.

It would have been better...

"Sit down, come on."

Timo grabbed Magnus by the hand and tugged him inside, and Berwald shook away the thought, rushing forward with intent as Timo attempted to lead Magnus into his bedroom. He intercepted them and fell against the wall, blocking the door, and asked, saving the comfort for Timo, "What the hell happened?"

Magnus looked up, all of that usual combativeness gone as their eyes met, and then quickly looked back down. Timo held his hand firmly, and Berwald's agitation was ever growing.

"Well? What went wrong? You saw, didn't you? Tell me."

There was no point in being gentle with Magnus, and if the situations had been reversed, Magnus would have had no kind words for Berwald.

Timo sent him a look of reprimand, but he stood firm.

"Can't ya talk? Tell me."

Finally, Magnus spoke. His voice was low and distant.

"I got there too late. Right after it went off, I was still outside the border. I got past it, and then he came runnin' down the road, and the soldiers were right there behind him. Shootin'."

Berwald twitched, the horrible sounds of gunshots ringing in his ears.

The image of quick Lukas dodging, like a fox.

Magnus swayed, wearily.

"He was right there. He was right _there_, and I was wavin' at him! Tellin' him to hurry up, you know? Don't stop. He was right there, and then—" Magnus broke off suddenly, and tossed back his head, laughing in a strange, high-pitched manner that bordered on insanity, and after Berwald and Timo had shared an alarmed look, he finally gathered himself and wheezed, in between chortles, "That! That fuckin' _backpack _of his! That huge backpack he loves so much! He—he dropped it! The soldiers were _right _there behind him and he dropped the fuckin' backpack and he stopped. And I could _see _him starin' at me, and _Christ_, I knew what was gonna happen. I screamed at him to come on, but he did it anyway, the stupid son of a bitch. He turned around and went back for his fuckin' backpack. That old, ratty thing." Magnus' breathy, eager voice fell back into monotone with frightening speed. "I used to ask him why he wouldn't ever just buy a new one. He said...he said he _liked _that backpack. It was lucky. The bombs went off better after they'd been in it."

A weak, humorless laugh.

"Some luck it brought this time, huh? They grabbed him. They saw me. I had to go. I had to leave him. The crazy son of a bitch, I had to leave him."

Magnus finally stopped, and bowed his head with a heavy sigh through his nostrils.

Berwald only shook his head in something that bordered on disbelief.

Finally, Timo gave Magnus' shoulder a firm pat, and he said, as he began to pull Magnus around Berwald's inert frame, "It's alright. Come on, you need to rest a little bit. It'll be alright! Rest a bit, and then we'll figure out what we're gonna do."

The door clicked shut behind him.

He lingered. Caught in between emotions.

It should have been Lukas and his goddamn superstitious habits that preoccupied him. It should have been Lukas, caught behind enemy lines and in constant danger, that weighted on his mind.

Timo and Magnus were together. By themselves. The thought was overwhelming, and maybe it made him a _horrible _leader, but even beyond Lukas his immediate concern was what was going on behind that closed door. He should not have intruded on Timo's privacy, but he did. Taking a silent step backwards and leaning in, pressing his ear against the door, he listened, still and silent, and tried to stifle the burn of envy in his chest.

Muffled voices.

Magnus, weary and crestfallen, being comforted by Timo, who was no doubt smiling and trying to be positive. Magnus, who had allowed himself to get close enough to Lukas to call him a best friend.

Brother.

He struggled to hear their words.

"...my fault."

"Don't say that. What else could you have done?"

A stiff silence.

"_Oh_," Magnus suddenly moaned, miserably, and in his mind, Berwald could just see him pitching forward and gripping his messy hair in his fingers, on the verge of collapsing into tears.

A whisper from Timo that he couldn't make out.

Closing his eyes, Berwald leaned his weight against the door, resting his head against it, and could suddenly picture everything as clear as day in his mind.

He could envision them.

Magnus sat there, clothes disheveled and dirty and eyes weary, bowing his head, and then he muttered to no one, "I shoulda gone with him from the start. Why'd I wait so long?"

Timo, clean and bright, placed a hand on his back, running his warm palm up and down soothingly. "Hey! It's not your fault. No one knew he was leaving. You know how he is. He never tells anyone."

For a second, Berwald felt a twinge of guilt.

_He _had seen Lukas leave.

And even though he knew that Magnus loved Lukas like a brother, he had been too angry and too _proud _to seek him out and tell him that Lukas was leaving on what could very well have been a dangerous mission. He could have told Magnus, who would have leapt after Lukas without thought, and maybe with Magnus' assistance, Lukas would be safe and sound at home right now.

"I told him! I told him to stop being so fuckin' stubborn and to just _tell _me when he left! I told him."

Berwald felt another twinge of guilt, because, God help him...

"It's not your fault. Try not to worry! Lukas has been caught before, remember? He's always found a way to get out of it."

God, if he had told Magnus right off, and if Magnus had gone after Lukas, then maybe it would be Lukas sitting here right now, and it would be Magnus in enemy hands.

And maybe some part of him would have been satisfied at that outcome.

A horrible thought, but he couldn't seem to push it away. He would rather it have been Magnus. He would rather it have been him. Not Lukas.

It would have been better.

The guilt was almost too much, and he pushed off the door, taking a step back as he intended to retreat. He didn't have time. The door was suddenly pushed open so fast that it nearly knocked him straight in the face, but he leapt backwards and Magnus came stalking out, so lost up in his head and his despair that he didn't even see Berwald standing there.

Did he hate Magnus so much to wish such a thing upon him?

As much as rebels didn't have to be friends, there was also no rule that freedom fighters had to be good people.

He wasn't really a good person.

Honestly, none of them were. People who worked behind the scenes to save others without violence, _those_ were good people. People who fought evil with kindness. They didn't like people being killed, and so killed in return.

They weren't good people, not a one of them.

He stood there, still and silent, and watched as Magnus fumbled down to the front door and slipped out into the snow, no doubt to go walk around town to collect himself. Timo came out into the hall, poking his head around the corner, watching Magnus' back through the window until he was gone. A soft, disheartened sigh.

They shared a long look, and Berwald could see how tired Timo was.

Finally, Timo sent him a weak smile, chirping weakly, "Well! Guess I'll go see if he's awake," and then quickly sidestepped him, and Berwald listened to his soft steps down the hall, and then the click of the door that hid the sleeping danger.

He was alone again.

Taking a breath and bracing his shoulders, he made to go after Magnus, if only to wrench him back and tell him that he could mope later all he wanted, but right now they needed to sit down and _talk _about this whole mess.

When he pushed open the door, Magnus had already disappeared down the long drive, wandering out into the streets below.

Berwald followed, and maybe some part of him followed only because he hoped to engage in a confrontation with Magnus, because decking him one in the face would be a great way to take some of this terrible stress off of his shoulders.

He made it down the hill, where the long dirt road began to wind back around the forests and turned into cobbled streets.

The little town loomed in the distance in the morning sun. Magnus' walking form, far ahead of him.

He raised his foot to follow.

And quickly stopped still.

Screaming.

He heard screaming, and his blood froze in his veins.

Screaming that echoed through the house and came all the way down to the edge of the forest.

He looked up, horrified, and when he lifted his boots and bounded through the snow like a hare up the hill, the adrenaline was almost too much to bear.

The closer he got to the house, the more he realized.

It wasn't screaming. It was _shrieking_.

Hair-raising and damn near petrifying, and when he took a great jump forward and wrenched open the front door, he could hear the voice ever closer, and knew.

The German was awake. And he was _not _happy.

Unspeakable horror.

Timo was _with _him.

Reaching the room with a racing heart, Berwald grabbed the handle, and leapt in without thought.

* * *

><p>Darkness.<p>

Whooshing in his ears. A dull, throbbing ache in his head. Pain all over.

He felt like he had wound up on the wrong end of a grenade.

A fog of numbness rolling in and out of his mind.

He felt lethargic.

Lolling, lolling, lolling...

Strange thoughts through a veil of darkness. Stars dancing before his eyes. Dazedly, he swore he felt a rush of searing heat.

Warmth.

No; no, maybe it was cold.

The shimmering diamonds of the aurora had been bright in the sky.

Blue-green. Sea green.

Pretty.

Ha.

...where _was _he?

Christ almighty, what the hell had he done to himself?

Waves of nausea. A pang of fire in his arm.

Maybe the aurora had fallen out of the sky and conked him on the head.

Sure as hell felt like it.

The darkness began to dim. A slow receding of night into a bright light.

The pain in his head went from a dull ache to a burning, shooting agony.

He did not dare moan in misery, for fear the movement and vibration alone would drag him back into unconsciousness.

The light burned down into a red haze. He came back down to earth.

And wished he hadn't.

Oh God, _never _had he hurt like this.

Exhaling in a vain attempt to shake the sleep and numbness away, he tried to open his eyes. He could not. And moving hurt too damn much, so he contented himself with leaning his head back into the cool, sturdy pillow beneath him, and trying to gather his thoughts.

Now. Think.

Where was he?

No, no, no. Too soon. Basics.

_Who _was he?

Ludwig. Okay. That was a good sign.

What year was it?

'40. Alright.

Now.

Where was the last place he remembered being?

With Gilbert. Saying goodbye. The soldiers laughing and joking and acting normal all around him.

A horrible secret.

What else?

His head was splitting open.

Smoke.

He remembered the train. The feel of the wind on his face. Clouds and fields. The unspeakable idea that had planted itself in his head. He remembered clinging tightly to the railing at the back, watching the high grass pass by, and waiting. Waiting. He remembered passing through Finland. And he remembered that exhilarating surge of adrenaline when he had passed the Swedish border, and the horrible mixture of excitement and guilt as he had waited for nightfall.

He remembered the thrill of seeing the aurora for the first time. Countless stars. Soft ground. A high moon above the aurora.

What else?

...what else?

A flash of gold that he had dismissed as tall grass. Looking over either shoulder, to make sure that no one was _watching_. Taking a deep breath. Gathering his courage. And then suddenly a bright flash.

Moonlight glinting from a pair of binoculars.

No.

He furrowed his brow as he struggled to recall the memory.

No, it hadn't been binoculars. Not binoculars.

Glasses.

Moonlight reflecting someone's glasses, and he had turned his head, and there had been someone crouching down in the snowy field. A man, pale in every sense of the word, resting a hand upon the ground to steady himself, and his glasses had been burning white for the moon, breaking through the night like a horrible beacon of accusation.

Seeing him. _Watching _him. An icy dread. A sudden movement. A terrible heat.

And that was it.

That was all he could remember. The rest was just dark. He tried to stick the pieces of the fragmented puzzle together.

He was in a bed; he could feel that much at least, through his aching body. So he was no longer aboard the train.

Where was he?

He had been on the verge of jumping and rolling to freedom. But someone had been there, where they should not have been, and he had been spotted, and things had taken a wrong turn. As for the rest, he could not say.

Had he lost his balance in fear and fallen and knocked himself unconscious? Maybe. It was possible. Embarrassing, but possible.

The man in the field had startled him. Somehow or another, he and the train had parted ways. Now he was in the worst pain of his life, inert in some bed, and God only knew where he was and who he was with.

Oh God. That man in the field. Oh God, had he _taken _him? Good God almighty, he had not ever considered being kidnapped a part of his desperado jump. What the hell was going on?

Feeling a sudden rush of adrenaline breaking through the fog and dulling the pain, he clamped his jaw and tried to push himself up.

He stopped short. He could not move his arms. Another horrible rush of fear.

Forgetting about the terrible agony in his head in a daze of alarm, he wrenched his eyes open in an effort to find out why his arms couldn't raise up and oh God, if he looked over and saw that something was missing, Christ almighty he would pass out, and what if the fuckin' train had rolled over his arms when he had fallen, oh _God_—!

But when the black cleared from his vision, he felt a relief he had never known.

His arms were there, very much intact.

The fog in his head had cleared a bit with the fear, and when his blurry vision finally came back into focus, he squinted his eyes and tried to raise his arm. He could not, and it did not take him long to realize that his wrists were tied somehow or another to the edge of the bed.

His heartbeat sped up, worse than ever, and then he heard a voice.

Close by. A whisper in a language he didn't understand.

He froze up. Cold.

And then he panicked.

Pulling himself up at the waist so fast that he saw stars and was threatened by dizziness, he was caught in a moment of blindness by the glaring sun streaming in through the windows, and was forced to close his eyes.

He felt vulnerable, and threatened.

A voice, ever closer, said, gently, "H-hey! It's alright! Calm down, you're alright."

Blinded by the sun and confused and scared, he tried to gather his bearings.

His feet were cold. His boots were gone. He couldn't move.

He was tied down.

Helpless.

He began to struggle, wrenching his wrists as hard as he could, despite the burning that seared him every time he yanked. Oh God, he had to get out. Trapped.

"It's alright! Stop!"

Who was there? What where they going to do with him?

Wait, this wasn't right; he had been in Sweden! Neutral. A safe-haven. This wasn't right.

The pain was overwhelming. Finally, he managed to open his eyes.

White.

"Hey, please calm down! Here, look at me. Over here, it's alright."

The sun was white. Colors seeped in.

Pastel. Bright, pale shades.

A bedroom.

The painfully white sun lit the room up, leaving no place for shadows. The walls and floors were wooden planks; white oak, polished and well-tended. The curtains were white, lit up like fire by the sun. Sparse pieces of furniture here and there; a well-weathered end-table with a porcelain lamp upon it, a large chair, its pale blue cushion the only real sign of color in the room.

"Over here. It's okay! Nothing's gonna happen, it's alright."

The voice was soft. Gentle. Unknown. Unfamiliar.

Feeling the hairs on his neck standing up in alarm, he finally turned his head to the side, and was instantly eye to eye with a man, who stood there beside the bed, a safe distance back, his form blocking out some of the sun's merciless rays.

"Yeah, there you go! Hey, you feeling alright? How's your head?"

Friendly words, to be sure, but when he finally came out of his stupor and was able to take him in, he realized that this man was no friend.

Standing there, somewhat slight and not particularly tall, light-haired and pale, he stared at Ludwig with a look of apprehension, and even though his eyes were soft and dewy, the big brown type that girls fell head over heels for, the gun gleaming in his beltline gave away immediately his danger.

No friend.

"It's alright."

Constant reassurance. Falsities.

Ludwig took in his words blearily, barely comprehending as the panic continued to build in his chest.

Who was this man? Where was he?

A strange accent. The man took a step forward. The slowly mounting panic was becoming dread. Sitting up at the waist, arms pinned down at either side and unable to flee, he stared in frozen alarm at the man next to him, absently twisting his wrists into the rope that bound them.

Something warm began to run down his arm.

The man's brow lowered, and he took another step forward, muttering lowly, "Oh, look, you tore your stitches."

Dumbly, he looked down, and the sleeve of his already mottled uniform was becoming damp with blood. A great crimson stain was spreading across the fabric.

But that was of little concern. The man came ever closer, as Ludwig raised his eyes back up.

"It's alright. Keep _calm_, alright?"

The man raised his hands up before him non-threateningly, and his crooning voice was like that of a man trying to soothe a snarling dog.

Ludwig fell back. The dread was mounting. He could barely breathe. His heart was racing so quickly that he was dizzy.

No uniform. The man wasn't wearing a uniform. Not a soldier. Who was he? What had he been brought here for?

A sudden hand, light and warm, upon his shoulder. Barely a touch. Just a brush.

Too much.

The dread exploded into horror.

He could not keep himself from giving in to the anxiety, kicking out blindly and thrashing his arms as hard against the ropes as he could, and when he finally found his voice, he realized that he was shrieking, in a loud, high-pitched, desperate tone that was unfamiliar even to himself.

"_Get away from me_! Don't touch me? Where am I? Why'd you bring me here? Who—who are you? Where am I? Tell me!"

He tried to swing his legs over the bed, but his tied wrists prevented him from getting anything above his knees over the edge.

Still, he flailed, and screeched.

The man jumped back in fright at the sound of his voice, his hand flying down to his gun. He did not draw it, but Ludwig's desperation intensified all the same.

"Answer me! Who are you? Goddammit, let me _go_! You can't keep me here! Let me go! Are you hearing me or what, you son of a bitch? Why are you just standing there? Untie me! You can't hold me here!"

The man only stood there, staring at him with wide eyes, and seemed suddenly unable to speak.

Ludwig continued to shriek at him, if only to keep himself from slipping into a panic attack or bursting into tears of frustration.

And besides, like that haughty, well-bred Austrian commander had taught him in boot camp : 'Can't reason with 'em? Just scream at 'em. The German language, for all its inconsistencies and perplexities, has always served us well in scaring the ever-loving shit out of our enemies with nothing more than a raised voice. Especially the Yanks.'

Or so he had said.

God love sharp-tongued Edelstein, Ludwig had taken that advice to heart, and even if this man before him wasn't a Yank, the same principles still applied.

Maybe scaring him enough would get him some goddamn answers.

But the man finally seemed to regain himself, and stepped backwards towards the door, his whole stance tense and rigid with wariness and alarm.

Finally, he spoke again, his soft voice all but drowned out under Ludwig's screaming, as he held up his arms and said, cautiously, "Calm down. No good's gonna come of you making a scene!"

A scene? He had every right to make a scene. Oh, _why _wouldn't he just tell him what was going on?

His head hurt so _bad_.

"Let me go right now! God, why won't you tell me where I am?"

A tentative look.

"Calm down, and I promise I'll tell you what's going on, alright? But you have to calm down! You're gonna hurt yourself!"

His frustration was too great.

In a rage, he lashed out furiously in a futile attempt to give the bastard a firm kick, thrashing his legs so hard that the frame of the bed shook against the wooden floor.

Moving hurt, but sitting still was not an option.

The man fell back again at his struggling, arms held out helplessly at his side, an equally helpless look upon his face.

Oh _God_, he was going to go crazy if he didn't get _out _of here—

"Stop it!"

And then the door burst open and another man skidded in, and Ludwig could not help but fall still and silent in a moment of surprise when, in a exceedingly swift movement, there was suddenly a gun pressed into his forehead.

A fog of shock.

He gazed up at the new man that stood next to him, and was struck with an instant familiarity.

Glasses. Those were the glasses. And this was the man that he had seen out there in those cold fields, kneeling down in the high grass and bathed in moonlight.

Silence. In a second of clarity, his mind took in the newcomer.

Tall, _very _tall, broad shoulders tense and firm, blond and blue-eyed, almost as pale as Gilbert, dressed neatly and hair combed smooth, bangs hanging into his eyes, glasses meticulously cleaned, he was possibly the most imposing human being that Ludwig had ever laid eyes upon, even after spending his entire life growing up around Gilbert's SA and SS attack-dog friends.

His eyes were impassive. Unreadable. The buttons of his shirt were perfectly in order. No wrinkles. There was no perceivable emotion upon his face.

Whereas the other man had spoken gently and tried to soothe him, this man gave no effort to appear amicable. Maybe he didn't even know the meaning of the word.

He had a feeling that, with this man, screaming would get him nowhere. He opened his mouth, and lost his voice. The gun was cold against his skin.

And then, reassured perhaps under this frightening man's presence, the gentler one stepped forward, and took a deep breath.

"Please don't struggle! Listen. Just stay calm, alright? I can understand that this must be, ah, frustrating for you—"

Well, that was an understatement.

Ludwig sent him a scorching glare, and he quickly added, "Right. Well, let's just get the basics settled, alright? Do you remember anything?"

Irritated, Ludwig turned his eyes back up the man that held the gun against him, and said, pointedly, "Yeah. I remember _you_. By the train."

The man above him didn't even flinch. Unblinking and unmoving.

The smaller shifted his weight anxiously, as Ludwig met the imposing stare as best he could.

"Listen, this whole thing just kind of got out of hand, alright? We couldn't leave you there. I mean, let's just say that your train was unable to reach its, er, final destination. You just had some bad luck, alright? It's nothing personal. We weren't aiming to take any prisoners, you know."

Without taking his gaze from the blond above, he asked, stiffly, "I'm in Sweden?"

"You are."

The pieces of the puzzle were slowly coming together. The searing heat, the darkness.

Sabotage. He had unknowingly witnessed a sabotage in progress. An attack on unarmed soldiers. The breaking of the Geneva and Hague conventions.

And that was why he sat here, tied to this bed. He was a security threat to these men. The dread that he had lost to his anger and irritation was steadily creeping back. Were they going to shoot him now, then, to protect themselves?

Likely.

He had made it to Sweden. Christ, so close! Why hadn't he jumped sooner?

Even though his stomach was twisting with nausea, he tried to appear as brave as possible, and pressed forward, pushing the gun back with his head as far as he could.

The man above furrowed an agitated brow.

The shorter continued, carefully, "We just need to work this out, alright? We have to figure something out."

Figure something out? A dangerously complicated scenario : he had witnessed Swedish rebels committing a war crime in a neutral country. Harshly punished. He was an Axis soldier that had been on the very verge of defecting. Even more harshly punished.

Both of them had things to hide. Neither could effectively tilt their hand.

He couldn't just say, 'Well, you can just let me go because I was planning on staying here anyway, so go blow up whatever you want and I'll go build a house in the snow.'

As if they'd believe him.

He had dreamed of abandoning this uniform. And now this uniform had him held prisoner in the very place he had come seeking asylum. The frustration was overwhelming. A cruel twist of fate. How could he get out of this?

Finally, after a moment of thick silence, the gun was removed from his forehead.

The pressure gone, he gave up the image of calm, and when the imposing man crossed his arms and stared down at him impassively, he wrenched his wrists as hard as he could in the rope and cried, loudly and angrily, "What are you thinking, huh? You can't keep me here! You have to let me go! Sweden hasn't broken neutrality—you can't keep prisoners of war here! Let me go!"

But the man just stood there, eyes unreadable behind his glasses, and it was a great, overwhelming need to get the hell _out _of there that made Ludwig thrash his legs childishly and sputter the foulest curses that Gilbert had ever taught him.

The rope began to cut into his wrists for his struggling. He could feel warmth running down his fingers.

He had been so _close_!

And still, the unshakeable blond just stood there, brow low and looking extremely severe.

"Untie me! You can't keep me here! This—this is a violation of all the pacts! You can't _keep _me here!"

A long shot. Obviously, war-time pacts were of no concern to this man. What else could he do? Just sit around in silence and wait for his execution?

His struggling intensified. He would not go down without a fight.

The man finally spoke, and his deep voice came out heavy and loud and maybe even somewhat hassled as he shouted, "Stop it!" in very thick, stiff German, and Ludwig did so, if only because the burn of the rope cutting into him was becoming too painful.

"Don't move. I'll shoot ya."

It took a moment to comprehend the words. A very thick accent, more prominent that the other's had been. Strange 'r's and dropped consonants, too soft a palate on the 'k's and 'f's, quick, short vowels.

Thoroughly Swedish.

Ludwig sent him a foul look, but he obeyed the command nonetheless. He couldn't break the damn ropes anyhow. Not like this. He fell still, and the tall Swede stared down at him with a stern, yet thoughtful look. A glance between his two captors, and then the taller turned his head, and observed the blood dripping slowly onto the floor from Ludwig's cut wrists.

A silence.

The gentler of the two stepped forward again, and took up spouting his words of comfort.

"Hey, listen, you need to rest for now. We won't hurt you. We just need to think about this, alright? If we all talk, I'm sure we can reach a conclusion..."

Ludwig was barely listening, lost in increasingly dismal thoughts.

How could this be worked out? They would not trust him to leave and keep his mouth shut. How could they know that he had never had any intentions of going to Norway?

"Why don't you just let me go?" he interrupted, lowly and wearily. "Like anyone would ever pick you two out of all the others anyway. Blindfold me and just drop me off somewhere, why don't you?"

No answer. He assumed as much.

The big Swede was staring with a tilted head at the slowly dripping blood, silently. A sigh from the smaller.

"Hey. Try not to worry, alright? It'll work out in the end."

He intended to grumble a snappy reply, but a sudden movement made him jump as the silent man suddenly came forward. He tensed in alarm.

But the Swede only fell to one knee before the side of the bed, as the smaller hovered over to the left, gun aimed steady, and Ludwig could only sit still as the blond at his side began to undo the knot in the rope around his wrist.

He felt a twinge of hope.

When his wrist was free, he did not have time to pull it up before the Swede's iron grip was upon it, as tight as the rope had ever been, and he rumbled, threateningly, "Don't move."

Now it was the taller blond who pulled out his gun and aimed it at him, as the smaller man on the other side freed his other wrist. If it hadn't been for the big brute on the right, he lamented in the back of his mind, he could have probably overpowered this gentle-eyed rebel and jumped right out the window.

There would be no running, not as the little one put his gun back up in the air and straight at his head, and he had no choice but to furrow his brow and watch as the Swede gathered up his wrists in his great hands and took up one of the ropes.

...should've punched him in the face first. At least that would have been satisfying.

A low brow of concentration between the Swede's low bangs, focused eyes and pursed lips as he tied the rope around his wrists with expert detail, and when he was done, he took the rope in his hand and tugged it, as though testing it. Finally, he asked, in a low, serious voice, "Better? I'n't too tight?"

Ludwig, caught under his unreadable stare, could only shrug a shoulder noncommittally. It was, but only a bit. The Swede's rough hands had tied the bond with surprising gentleness.

But still.

"It'd be better," he finally muttered, once he had broken himself free of the intimidating, unwavering stare, "if you'd just untie me and let me go."

A silence.

Then the Swede drawled, monotonously, "Yeah, sure."

He pulled himself to his feet, casting Ludwig a stern look, and then, maybe as an afterthought, he grabbed up the other half of the rope and with swift, sure fingers quickly tied Ludwig's ankle to the end of the bed. Feeling claustrophobic and frustrated and unspeakably helpless, Ludwig could only spit at the Swede a few quick curses, and then bow his head in defeat, grumbling under his breath.

The blond was unfazed at his hisses.

"Sit still. We're gon' talk. Be back soon."

"Sure," he griped, foully.

Burning holes into the blanket with his eyes, he heard the man before him utter a deep, firm, "Keep still now," and then there were heavy steps upon the floor, followed by light ones.

The shutting of the door. He was alone.

Exhausted, he fell back onto the bed, his bound wrists resting on his stomach, and heaved a great sigh. Had one of them not been tethered, he would have kicked his legs some more and then taken a flying leap out of the window.

His predicament looked dire. Uncertain. Rolling restlessly onto his side, he closed his eyes and tried to keep a certain measure of hope mixed into his pessimism. After all, if they had intentions of shooting him, surely they would have done it already? Why drag out his misery?

Maybe they would just let him go.

Agitated and sick to his stomach, he tossed this way and that, and yet no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't sleep. And who could, with their life hanging in the balance of a few dissatisfied freedom fighters? Men who leapt into war even though they didn't have to.

He drifted in and out of space, and was glad that Gilbert could not see him like this. He would have been ashamed, no doubt.

Time passed slowly and steadily.

He glanced up at the clock on occasion, and was surprised that it was still morning yet.

Time was dragging. His sore body was aching. The blood from his arm had seeped into the blanket.

A pang of hunger mixed with the nausea. How long had he been here, helpless and hurt in this bed?

Time passed, and still no one had come back. He couldn't even get up to stretch his sore legs.

Time ticked away. Minutes into hours.

They were _still _talking?

The sun was high above. The white light of morning had turned golden.

He looked at the clock. Noon already?

When would they come back? What would they decide? Would they shoot him? It took every nerve within him to keep the nausea forced down. Oh God, they were probably going to shoot him. That was what he had been trained to do. It was what Gilbert would have done.

He felt sick. He had been so close.

So close.

Time passed. Slowly.

Half past noon, and then finally, the door clicked. He jumped upright in anticipation. A head poked in. The less frightening one.

A gentle voice. Kind eyes.

"Good news for you!" came the words through the haze, and he felt a prick of relief.

It quickly fled.

"One of ours got caught by the Wehrmacht on the other side. If we're careful, we can get you close enough to the border so we can make an exchange. But we think we can work it out pretty well! See? I told you everything would turn out alright! Don't worry, you'll be safe in Norway with your comrades by the end of the day."

A quick, timid smile, and the head was gone as quickly as it had poked in.

The door shut, leaving Ludwig to sit there in a dull, icy daze.

By the end of the day. In Norway.

Stunning numbness. The very thing he had striven so hard to avoid. The thought was _devastating_. So long he had spent to gather the courage and the bravery needed to do the unthinkable, to utter that awful word of _defection_, and yet, for all the mental torment, he was back in the same place.

He would not go to Norway. He would not go back to the others. The thought of it made him sick.

Being ushered through that last border, where they would pat him on the back and admire his bravery and probably slap a medal on his chest, and then they'd stick a rifle in his hands and shove him on his way down the streets, and he would walk back and forth through a little Norwegian village, frightening the elders to the point of tears and threatening hapless couples who disobeyed curfew and even the damn _dogs _would fear him.

He couldn't. He wouldn't. That wasn't war. Where was the honor and glory in bullying scared, helpless civilians? Dumbly, he looked at the closed door with unbridled horror.

No.

No, no, no, that wasn't going to happen.

Looking around the room in a terrible desperation, he sought a way out. His eyes fell on the opposite end of the room, and it was with a lunge that he threw himself over the end of the bed and onto the floor, reaching out for the end-table that held the lamp.

He would not stand for this.

And he must have looked _ridiculous_, splayed out on his stomach on the wooden floor, reaching out as far as he could with his bound hands, one leg high up in the air as his ankle remained firmly tethered to the end-post, flailing about like a landed fish.

Appearances were hardly important.

Swinging his weight forward as far as he could, ignoring the painful strain on his ankle, he clenched his fists together and lashed out, knocking the end-table as hard as he could (after several misses) for his ill position.

The lamp tottered back and forth tantalizingly. And then fell still.

With a grunt and a curse he flung himself out again, and after a few more misses, he struck the table again, effectively busting his knuckles on the unyielding wood, and watched as the lamp swayed back and forth. It fell with a dull thunk onto the arm of the chair, and then tumbled to the floor. The well-built porcelain had miraculously held fast, and it had not shattered. Groping out with sore fingers, he managed to roll the lamp towards him, and scooted backwards towards the bed, giving his ankle a rest.

Looking around shrewdly to make sure that no one had heard the clatter, he waited for a still second, and when there were no running footsteps, he pulled the lamp against his chest and lifted it up within his bound arms. Twisting around, he maneuvered the lamp and struck it against the bedpost as hard as he could.

It cracked, and with another strike, shattered.

He saved his sigh of relief for later, and took up a large shard of the lamp, grasping it in his clumsy, restricted hands and lifting himself up at the waist, sawing as quickly as he could through the rope that held his foot in place.

As he ran the sharp end back and forth against the coarse, tough strands, the shard cutting his palms, he could not help but be a bit enthralled with the adrenaline.

Hell, for all the improvised survival shit he was doing now, he may as well have been going to France with Gilbert instead of quiet Norway.

Vacation? Ha! Yeah, right. Fuckin' disaster _this _had turned out to be. A vacation from hell.

The blood dripping from his palms spattered the hem of his shirt, and then finally, the rope snapped free. Feeling triumphant and hopeful, he turned his attention to the rope on his wrists. Escape would have been an impossible feat if that frightening oaf of a man hadn't retied his binds.

He would use the Swede's act of kindness against him. Gilbert had taught him _that _much, at least.

He would not go back.

"Come on, you son of a bitch," he muttered irritably to himself, as he sat cross-legged on the floor, holding the shard of porcelain within his bare feet, rubbing the rope against the edge of it as fast as he could.

He suppressed a cry when he slipped and dug the shard into his arm rather than the rope, but he gritted his teeth, shook his head to clear it, and replaced his wrists in position, carrying on without a second thought.

He had to get out of here.

The shard dug into the soles of his feet and broke the skin, but he did not stop, even as the rope burned the skin on his wrists and peeled away the already worn flesh. Focused and determined, he kept at it until finally the last strands of stubborn rope broke, and he fell back in relief with a triumphant snarl, pulling the bonds off and tossing them aside, rubbing his tender wrists irritably.

It hurt like hell, and the gashes on his feet were no less painful, but he stumbled across the room nonetheless. His boots had been taken from him; he did not see them in the room, and he did not dare try to find them and risk getting caught. He would go on without them. Rushing to the window, leaving a trail of blood behind him, he gripped the windowpane in his hands and pulled himself quickly through, sparing no second glance behind.

He knew where he wanted to be, and it wasn't back in Norway with a rifle.

Sad for them. Let them go save their friend by themselves.

As soon as he hit the snow-covered ground, he rolled upright and staggered down the hill, and he found that it was hard for him to move quickly, bruised and battered and his feet compromised. But he would not stop, and even when he stumbled forward and rolled through the snow, he pulled himself right back up to his feet and carried on, looking over his shoulder to make sure that no one had seen him.

The hill finally flattened, and he saw the snow-covered road in the distance, surrounded by forests. The smell of pine. He bolted for the road, as fast his numb feet would allow, and when he rounded a sharp bend, he could see the town before him.

Scattered houses, pretty little buildings. Cobbled streets and a tall, gleaming clock tower above a church. Quiet and snowy and absolutely everything he had ever imagined when he had thought of Sweden.

He tried to keep a low profile, slinking through the streets as quickly and quietly as possible.

Thank God it was a small place, for he was not exactly inconspicuous, covered in blood and dirt and without shoes, leaving bloody footprints in the white snow as he went, cut everywhere and wearing a Wehrmacht uniform. He looked like he had just come from the battlefield. That would not go over well.

Creeping into the alley between two buildings, he lingered in the dark when he saw someone approaching, and waited for them to pass, hidden in shadows.

All he had to do was make it out of the central part and follow the road to wherever it would lead. Jacking a car on the way would be preferable.

The passersby came and went, and he came back out, continuing his trek.

The town was still and silent. The mountains stood huge and white off to the side. Plumes of smoke wafted up in the clear air here and there, the chimneys from houses and cabins tucked away in the pines.

It was a cute little place, that was for sure, pretty and quiet. If the jerks in the house on the hill hadn't fucked everything up, maybe he could have wound up in this little place on his own. He wouldn't have minded living here for a while. Acting normal.

Oh well. There were more towns to be found.

The last of the buildings was approaching, and then there was just road.

He was close.

A few more feet of careful observation of his surroundings. He became restless, and with it, maybe careless. There were a few more structures to pass, little stores, but his anxiousness to clear them prevented him from going slowly past and making sure that no one was watching him.

The start of the long road was close. He threw caution to the wind.

He ran.

Too soon.

He made it one great lunge forward, and then there was a shadow next to his own and he was going in reverse, yanked back by a great pressure upon his throat as a sudden hand entangled itself in his collar, and then there was a firm warmth against his back, and then a sharp, shooting pain on the side of his head.

Then there was only darkness.


	5. Wayfaring Stranger

**A/N **: Ludwig takes bitches down.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 5<strong>

**Wayfaring Stranger**

Unlucky.

That was what he was. He attracted trouble like a goddamn magnet. Maybe he had been born under a bad star.

Nothing ever seemed to work out exactly like he wanted it to. Nothing ever happened the way it was supposed to. Nothing ever came easy. Not even something as straight-forward as a conversation.

It should have been simple, to sit there at the kitchen table with Timo, hanging wearily over cups of coffee to soothe their frazzled nerves as they waited for Magnus to come marching back up to the house and whispering lowly to each other about possibilities and insinuating tentatively about dismal outcomes. It should have been simple to come up with a game plan. To figure out how they were going to go about the entire thing. How they would skirt danger and approach the lion's den.

It should have been simple.

It never was.

Because they just sat there at the table and time had passed and passed and passed, the morning sun ever rising, and still Magnus had not returned, and finally the coffee was cold and the whispers just faded into nothing. Timo stared blankly out the window as Berwald glowered silently at the table, and time kept passing. Magnus never came.

But as soon as Berwald impatiently opened his mouth and said, 'Alright, here's what we're gonna do,' Timo broke his gaze from the window and met his eyes, shooting down his attempt with a clipped, 'We should wait.'

Wait for what? For Magnus to just sit there and be all but useless? He wanted to say as much, but only furrowed his brow and absently stirred his cold coffee.

Conversation was lacking. Nearly noon. No Magnus.

Patience gone and feeling restless, he took charge of the situation, and this time he did not let Timo's passive-aggressiveness deter him, and stated, firmly, 'We're gonna trade. No matter what we gotta do. Even if we gotta make a run for it t'wards the end.'

Timo had shifted his weight in one of those moment of apprehension, but maybe his tone had been commanding enough, for instead of a plea for patience, Timo rested his chin in his palm.

'What if we're too late for Lukas?' came the dreary inquiry. 'What do we do with _him_?'

An inclined head towards the hall made it obvious who '_he_' was, and Berwald fell silent.

'We'll improvise,' was his perhaps lame response, and when Timo sent him a strange look that was almost a mix of disbelief and maybe disappointment, he felt a twinge of insecurity.

Maybe Timo waited for Magnus because Berwald was proving to be a poor leader.

The thought was absolutely mortifying.

It was that sudden rush of insecurity that had made him brace his shoulders and lift his chin and say, loudly and stiffly, 'Tell him we're gonna take him back to his friends so he'll calm down. Get ready. Pack up what you need. We'll leave when we're all together.'

To his surprise, Timo stood up and did exactly as he was told.

Lingering for a minute, Berwald had sucked in a great breath to steady himself, and set about gathering his own items. Not much. Gun. First-aid. Silencer. A little food. Ammunition. A bottle of vodka, should it become necessary to calm the nerves of either Lukas or the German. Assuming that Lukas, of course, actually _had _nerves in the first place. Might shove a glass or two down the soldier's throat, though.

All that screamin'.

A click of the door told him that Timo had delivered the news to the soldier.

Maybe now he'd sit still and be quiet and just cooperate. Cooperation would make everything so much safer.

The sun rose higher. The coffee sat forgotten on the table. And now it was already after noon, the sun was glaring and the bags were ready in the car, and yet still no Magnus.

It occurred to him that Magnus was probably sitting out on the sidewalk somewhere, almost halfway through his own bottle of vodka, and he was probably huddling in his coat, red-faced and wallowing in a puddle of self-pity and moaning Lukas' name.

Drinking himself to death.

Magnus' shot liver was not his immediate concern, and Berwald, pacing the kitchen, cocking and un-cocking his gun at his side in steady rhythm, was feeling a bit confident. Perhaps foolishly so, but there it was.

This might all work out. Others had done it. Why couldn't they?

Granted, it had been the Finns he had seen, holding captured Soviet soldiers tantalizingly before the Red Army and offering their safety in exchange for a rebel that had found himself on the wrong end. Maybe the Soviets were different than the Germans, but the rules were all the same; give me mine and I'll give you yours.

Clunking. Dull thuds. Timo messing around up above, no doubt.

Footsteps on the stairs.

He was a leader. He had to act the role, even if sometimes he didn't really _feel _like it.

Soft steps on the tile behind alerted him to Timo's presence.

"Got everything?" he asked, turning around to observe.

And from the great coat and snow boots, it was obvious that Timo was ready to set out.

"Yup!" came the quick response, and Berwald only nodded, and as they stood there, staring at each other and trying not to down the atmosphere by showing fear or nervousness, the smile on Timo's face was dangerously thin.

Berwald's confidence mingled with a terrible dread.

Icy anxiety. Silence.

Stay confident. Show no doubt.

Removing his fingers from his gun and tucking his hands in his pockets, Berwald fought away the nauseating adrenaline and inclined his head to the door, saying, voice more calm than he felt, "Wanna go look for him?"

With a strained laugh, Timo said, "Why don't you just clink some beer bottles together? He'll come running!"

"Ha."

Another awkward silence. What was even the point of pretending that everything was normal? All attempts just fell flat. Timo's smile wavered. His own hands, within his pockets, were not so steady.

"Well!" Timo suddenly said, "I guess I'll go check on our guest, and then I'll see if I can scrounge up Magnus from the streets."

He nodded, and turned his back, turning his eyes to the window as Timo retreated down the hall.

Scrounge up Magnus.

Better Timo do it. He could scrounge Magnus up just as well, but he might end up tossing him into a few lampposts on the way back first. Maybe the side of a building here and there. Or down a hill or two.

Shifting his weight this way and that, it struck him, somewhere in the back of his mind, that it had been almost eerily quiet.

No more screaming. The German had calmed down. That was good news. His persistent struggling and thrashing and screeching had died down. Probably asleep.

...shouldn't sleep with a concussion. Might not wake up.

As he stood there, staring out at the forest below blankly and chewing his bottom lip, the silence was suddenly shattered in a shrill moment of alarming déjà vu.

A high-pitched cry.

"Son of a _bitch_!"

A horrible flood of adrenaline, and he wrenched his neck back so fast that it nearly snapped, and good God almighty, how many more times would he be caught off guard by someone screaming?

He bolted down the hall. Far too dizzy to even contemplate the possibilities.

Flying down the hall, he burst through the door, slamming it so hard with his shoulder that the hinges creaked threateningly.

Then there was silence.

When he entered the room, all but skidding to a halt, his racing, blurry mind only had a second to take in the scene : blood here and there, and Timo stood at the window, gripping the windowsill and staring outside with wide eyes. The room was cold. The pieces were coming together, but before his slow body could react, Timo reached out (obviously in one of those quickly appearing moments of anger) and punched the wall, screeching a particularly shocking curse in Finnish, and then with one swift moment leapt straight out of the window.

Berwald stood frozen.

...the hell?

Shaking his head to clear it, he looked around.

And in a second, his dazed mind came roaring back to life, and he observed and understood the evidence around him. Strands of frazzled rope. Shards of a broken lamp on the floor. Blood stains. Bloody footprints leading to the window. Open window. Air flowing in.

Empty bed.

A dawning realization.

The soldier had escaped.

A flood of horror. The soldier was _gone_.

Gone.

Leaving only blood and a very dead Lukas behind him.

A cry of, "Shit!" was all he managed, before he turned and bolted out, choosing to go out the door and focus on the front of the house as Timo scuttled down the hill beneath the window at the side. Meet in the middle.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

Shoulda just let the damn son of a bitch drag the rope right through his wrists.

He should have known better.

Ripping open the front door and throwing himself into the chilly air, coatless and wearing short, thin boots that were meant for the indoors, he flew down the stairs and into the icy drive, skidding here and there and slipping, and when he saw Timo far down ahead at the bend in the road, he took off as soon as his feet hit snow.

He had forgotten, in all honesty, what it felt like to run like this. Really run.

He would be the first to admit that he was slow-natured, taking his time for most things and moving quickly only when absolutely necessary, walking briskly on occasions and sometimes jogging to avoid a dangerous situation, but very rarely running.

Cold air stinging his face, chest tight and arms flying out to keep his balance steady, against the wind and lungs burning, sprinting so fast through the snow that half of it flew up behind him like a roaring blizzard, and with every other stride he leapt forward so broadly that both of his feet found themselves in the air at the same time.

If the fuckin' kid had gotten away, no one would ever trust him again.

Ignoring the snow melting inside of his boots and his thin shirt stiffening with cold, he bounded towards the snow-covered road, attempting to catch Timo, who was proving to be much faster than he had imagined, and who seemed to be following a very straight path.

As if he knew where the German was going. Had he caught sight of him?

The rush of possible danger made him sprint even harder, and when he came down to the bend in the road, surrounded on both sides by thick forests, he could suddenly see what Timo had been following the entire time.

Red on white. Drops and smudges of crimson tainting the snow. The trail of blood was easy to see. He should be grateful for that, at least. The soldier was just leading them right to him.

He couldn't have gotten far, not in his state.

Berwald could only run behind Timo and pray that they caught the troublesome Wehrmacht and had him back in place before Magnus ever found out. He would never hear the end of it.

Rounding the turn into the street, he could see beyond the tall tress the little houses that gleamed out, and the tiny town visible in the distance.

Surely the soldier had had the sense to stay out of sight! If anyone in this sleepy little town saw a German soldier wandering down the streets, there would be a panic, and the game would be up, sooner or later.

They would have to leave here. He didn't want that, either.

Catching up to Timo, Berwald fell into his side and they slowed their mad dashes into very fast walking as the dirt road changed to cobble, attempting to remain discreet and avoid unwanted attention from distant neighbors that might have been passing. Darting through the quiet streets, they followed the bloody footprints, now harder to see as the high sun began to soften the snow enough to melt it from the centers of the sidewalk.

The trail was becoming harder to follow.

Timo was pale and breathless, hands tucked into his pockets as he turned his head this way and that as he struggled to find any sign of their escapee. Berwald raised his head, trying to see ahead in the distance.

Nothing.

The microscopic town was quickly coming to an end. An icy dread was slowly creeping upon them. Maybe they'd lost the soldier for good. And what then?

A disaster. An unforgivable disaster.

Their pace quickened into a frantic jogging. Timo was muttering to himself under his breath, boots thudding dully on the sidewalk as he looked about in a panic.

Berwald felt embarrassed, more than anything.

The last buildings were coming up, and still nothing, and now the urgency was overwhelming.

Nothing.

The last buildings passed.

There was nothing.

No more trail. No footprints. No obvious disturbance. No figure running in the distance.

The German was gone. Vanished into thin air.

They froze up, Timo staring out into the road that twisted up into the vast forest, a look of horror on his face, and Berwald could have just keeled over dead for the shame.

Timo reached up and pinched the bridge of his nose, squinting his eyes and breathing in a strange, labored fashion as he might have been struggling not to burst into tears or begin pitching a fit.

Either way, Berwald would not have blamed him.

He deserved to be punched in the face.

But as they stood there, completely still and probably looking crestfallen and defeated, there was suddenly a great cry from behind them.

"Hey!"

It took a second to break free of the gloom and whirl around, and when they did, it was with shock.

Standing there in the shadow of the last building, tucked towards the back and staying very much out of obvious sight, stood a man.

The last building was the remnant of a once-occupied family bakery that went six feet under when the family had done the same, dying out without anyone to take over, and now it just sat there, falling into ruin. Fallen wooden beams littered the back, standing up here and there at odd angles and propped up against tilting bricks, the encroaching weeds poking up above the snow and threatening to engulf the building entirely. And so it was surprising to see someone standing there in that gloom, half-hidden behind the beams and looming in the shadows, and it took Berwald a second of squinting to really realize who it was.

Poking his head out from the darkness, his golden hair hit the sun and lit up.

Magnus.

Berwald felt like he had been punched, then.

Magnus was not alone, and he stood back in the shadows because he had something dangerous within his hands. More specifically, he held up against him another man, one of his big hands tangled in a bloody collar and the other wrenching back his captive's arm in a firm vice.

It hit him.

Magnus had caught the German. Magnus had found him before he escaped for good.

A flood of relief.

Staring out at them from his hiding spot, Magnus lifted his chin, and said, lowly, "Come here. I got somethin' for ya."

Berwald had never been so relieved to see Magnus. Not ever.

When Timo was beside of him, Magnus shifted position, keeping a grip on the German's collar as Timo took out a length of rope from his pocket and reset binding the soldier's wrists together.

This time the soldier was not struggling, and he just stood there, head bowed and eyes closed and completely silent, seeming to lean back against Magnus for support rather than really standing on his own, and Berwald could see the trickle of blood creeping down his neck. Magnus' hand wrenched so tightly in the stained shirt that he was forced up as straight as a board, even though he must have been dizzy.

Magnus had ambushed him, no doubt.

Finding his feet, he followed Timo far back into the dusty gloom, where there were no prying eyes and it was safe to speak.

As soon as he was near, Magnus caught his gaze, and sent him a wide smile that tottered on being a sneer.

"Look what _I _found!" he cried, enthusiastically, as he reached around from behind and flicked the iron eagle patch on the German's breast triumphantly. "You lose something, Berwald?" As the blood continued to trickle down the soldier's neck, running over Magnus' hand, Berwald felt his ire rise in a very familiar fashion as Magnus leered at him from behind the German's shoulder. "Real good job you did of making sure he stayed put! Yeah, everything's going according to plan, right?"

The relief was marred with resentment.

That loud fuckin' mouth.

In between them, as Timo finished up the binds, the German swayed haphazardly to and fro, as blood dripped down into the snow. Drifting in and out of consciousness, held up only by Magnus. Crimson on white.

Magnus had hit him hard. Maybe _too _hard. How much more could this soldier take? He was of no use to them gravely injured or dead, or even so senseless that he couldn't walk. They needed him awake and mobile, to make that walk across the lines.

"Man, I'm glad you were out here," Timo finally said, voice low and almost a whisper, as though he were somehow worried about Berwald hearing him tossing kind words to Magnus.

Shaking his head, Magnus only muttered back, "I shouldn't'a had to been grabbin' him at _all_. How'd he get loose? God, I thought... I thought he'd hurt you."

Timo smiled, a strange look upon his face. "Worried about me, huh? Well, I'm glad for that, too!"

Berwald was not. That way that they looked at each other.

"Alright," he finally interrupted, as Magnus and Timo stared at each other in that awful way, the words they whispered as uncomfortable as the icy water stinging his toes inside his shoes, and with intent he stepped forward and grabbed the soldier's upper arm, seeking to reclaim him so they could set off and get this whole mess settled.

When he tugged the German, he didn't budge, and Berwald realized that Magnus was hanging on to him tightly, refusing to give him up.

He tugged again, and this time Magnus sent him a foul hiss of a whisper. "Get off him! You think you're gettin' him back after all this? I'll keep an eye on him, since you can't even keep him sitting still!"

Refusing to be humiliated and overpowered, Berwald furrowed his brow, and held steady.

Timo was becoming restless.

"And what d'ya think yer gonna do with him?" was his lame comeback, and for a second, Magnus just stared at him, and then giggled incredulously.

"W-what? _Me_? The better question is what did _you _think you were gonna do with him? What are you gonna with him, huh? What the _hell _are you gonna do with him? In a place like this! You can't keep him tied up to the bed forever!"

The soldier was still and silent.

Timo was shaking his head now, but once they started, it was hard to stop.

"We know what we're doin'! We're takin' him over there. So stop bein' an ass and go get in the goddamn car so we can leave."

A breathless smile.

Magnus stared at him with wide eyes of incomprehension.

"Takin' him?" came the soft whisper, and suddenly Timo tried to intervene, saying too loudly, "Yeah, we've got a plan! Let's go!"

Magnus looked at them in turn, and seemed momentarily stunned. Berwald used it to his advantage.

With one mighty yank, he successfully dislodged the swaying, battered soldier from Magnus' grip.

A victory, however small.

His victory was marred by the foul look Timo was sending him, and it was with reluctance that he passed the German off to him in an effort to keep the fragile peace together. There was no resistance, as the soldier slumped within Timo's grasp, one too many knocks to the head keeping him subdued.

Magnus crossed his arms and leaned back against the wall of the building, staring Berwald down with resentment.

"So," he began, in a voice of thinly concealed fury, "Where were you taking him, exactly?"

Since nothing that came out of his mouth ever seemed to be good to Magnus, Berwald just fell back, and let Timo, gripping the German by his arm, explain aloud their sketchy plan. Since it was Timo, he was certain that Magnus would be responsive and willing.

...right?

But when Timo concluded with a weak, "So, this way we can get him back and everyone's happy, and we won't have to hide anyone."

Silence. Magnus stared. And then his eyes snapped up to Berwald, as though he had somehow _felt _Berwald's hand upon this venture even through Timo's soothing voice.

"You're—you're _stupid_!" was the response he finally got, and for a minute, he was too stunned to move.

He had been certain that Magnus would be on board. At least for Lukas, if nothing else.

"You're really stupid, you know?" Magnus groaned, raising a hand up to his forehead, and maybe he was a little tipsy after all, as he collapsed against the building wearily. "You sat up all night and that was the best you could come up with? How did you think you were gonna do it? Did ya think you were gonna just walk up to them without gettin' shot? And even if ya did! Did you think they were really gonna go along with it? Are you really that stupid? As soon as he starts walking towards them they'd just shoot all of us! Christ, after that bomb! They won't do it, they won't, and if you really thought it would work then you're a lot stupider than I thought ya were."

A terrible dumping of cold water on his confidence. He tried to ignore the words and put on a brave front nonetheless, furrowing his brow and contenting himself with grabbing the German back from Timo.

Let Timo deal with Magnus. He had better things to do.

Yanking the dazed and wobbly soldier upright and pulling him along quite roughly, he turned his back on Magnus, and, after making sure the coast was clear, he began to drag the thorn in his side right back the way he had come from.

The German's feet dragged through the snow at his side, all but a dead weight.

"_Berwald_! Get _rid _of him! For God's sake!"

Get rid of him. Like taking the pale-haired soldier out back and pushing him onto his knees and shooting him like a damn dog was just akin to tossing out the trash. He couldn't have done it.

Magnus groaned from the shadows, as he was increasingly left behind.

"He's bad news, I can tell! We need to just get rid of him now before we regret it!"

"I know what I'm doin' with him," Berwald muttered, and now Magnus was following behind, albeit at a very great distance, if only so that he could snipe more.

Timo just sped his pace, taking the lead on both of them, and Berwald could see the storm brewing in his eyes as he passed.

Timo, always disappointed in them.

"He'll be nothing but trouble!" Magnus called after him, and when Berwald ignored him and carried on, dragging the German forcefully, "You'll see, I'll be right in the end! Just wait!"

Agitated, he threw back, "Yeah, and a broken watch is right twice a day."

A silence, and then Magnus tossed back his head and laughed, loudly, footsteps heavy as he quickened his pace, and Berwald did not spare him another glance as he walked down the empty streets, trying his best to outpace him.

The German was heavy.

Another cry. Relentless Magnus.

"Hey! I'll come along, but only so I can see if I can bust him out some other way, and so I can make sure you don't blow everything to hell. I'll keep an eye on Timo; you can keep your little Tysker."

Awful words.

'I'll keep an eye on Timo', as if Berwald were incapable of keeping Timo safe.

Timo, ahead of them, cried back, voice faint through the wind and distance, "I can take care of myself, jackass."

Magnus, far from hurt, smiled breathlessly. "Sure can!" he crooned, and Berwald could only duck his head and wonder to himself if maybe he could keep the stunned German and trade Magnus for Lukas instead.

'Hey, I want that Norwegian, so I offer instead this loud-mouthed Dane.'

That might work.

Pfft, yeah right. Who would ever want to take Magnus? He could take Magnus out back and _get rid _of him instead, though.

...when had he become so bitter? Must've been the war. He hadn't thought such horrible things before it. Had he?

That one day, so long ago.

They weren't good people.

The town streets were left behind, and the road became muddy as the cobble ended and the long, winding drive up to the house began.

The German was all the more difficult to move uphill. Was he really so dazed or was he just faking it to be a pain in the ass?

He wouldn't make another mistake, not this time. His grip upon the German's arm and collar tightened, and when he had dragged the limp Wehrmacht up the great hill and towards the car, he was forced to stand there for a second, and take a breather.

Magnus bounded up behind, cheeks red for the cold and yet breathing easily.

Maybe he was gettin' old.

As if. He was just the only one pulling his weight here, and he all but said it by griping, loudly, "Go get the bags and put 'em in the car."

Magnus just stood there. A moment of hesitation, and Berwald finally stomped his foot, as he ripped open the backdoor of the car to shove the woozy German inside.

"Now!"

Magnus sent him a foul, burning look, but retreated towards the steps anyway, probably only because Timo had burst out the door, lugging a heavy bag at his side. Magnus took it from him with eager hands and a charming smile.

Berwald, in a burst of anger, unfairly took it out on the German by pushing him so hard into the car that he knocked his head on the opposite window. A dull grunt of pain, and Berwald slammed the door shut, nearly catching the German's heel in the door.

The bags loaded up into the other car, safe out of reach of the rather conniving soldier, Timo looked about this way and that, and then caught Berwald's eyes, inclining his head to the slumped soldier.

"I'm gonna put his boots on," he said, coolly, and Berwald only shrugged a shoulder.

"Fine. Do whatcha want."

Reaching down, Timo took up the boots that were set out upon the steps, walking down towards the car as Berwald leaned against it, resting a palm against his temple and squinting his eyes.

His head was already pounding in anxiety, and they hadn't even pulled out yet.

Timo sent him a look, an attempt at reassurance.

"Feel alright?"

He only nodded, even though he didn't, and with a snort, Timo reached down, and opened the door.

An innocent act.

The tornado burst out from behind it.

A blur and a flash of dull green, and the second that the car door had opened, the German had fallen forward in one great springing jump, kicking off from the edge of the metal frame and bounding towards freedom with fervor.

Timo dropped the boots in shock, and it took Berwald a second to come screeching back into alertness with a jolt of fear.

They reacted at the same time, and bolted.

Berwald jumped over the piles of snow, feeling his heart thudding in his chest, and, _oh_, thank _God _that Magnus had hit the German so hard, for it was only because his balance was off and he staggered that Berwald was able to catch the back of his collar and drag him down.

Fucker had been fakin' the whole time. Sneaky son of a bitch.

He heard a cry of alarm and the slam of a door as Magnus jumped out to come to their aid, but it was a little late; as soon as the German was in his hands, he turned into a viper. Then came the mighty struggle, and even though by all rights the German should have been unconscious or damn-near dead, he still sought to break free, twisting and kicking and giving every effort to land his foot in Berwald's face.

Fighting until the end.

He tangled his hands in the German's hair in a desperate attempt to keep him from breaking away.

Timo thrust his hands into the rope that bound the soldier's, and took hold.

But still the German struggled.

Were they trained to be so relentlessly determined? Wolves without fear and not understanding when they were beaten? Not knowing the word 'retreat'?

Or were they just bred that way?

Looking at him, icy-eyed and pale-haired and white as a ghost and still _fighting_, even as his eyes focused and unfocused as lightheadedness came and went, bleeding and run-down and yet somehow still so defiant, Berwald was inclined to believe it was the latter.

The German had probably been born that way. Perfect soldiers. Never stop fighting.

Berwald would have none of it, not right now, not with so much at stake, and with the unsettled equilibrium and loss of blood and numerous knocks to the head, the soldier was finally overpowered when Magnus was with them, placing a heavy boot upon the Germans' back, pressing him so hard into the snow that he was all but buried and certainly unable to breathe.

Finally, under Magnus' unforgiving, crushing blow, the German gasped for air, and fell still.

"Little motherfucker," Magnus grumbled to no one, and with a hiss of air through his teeth, he released his foot, and the German could breathe again.

Berwald yanked him up onto his knees and dragged him quite unceremoniously back towards the car, sitting him down on the seat and holding him still as they took a quick breather and gathered their thoughts.

"Told you he'd be trouble," Magnus said, bitterly.

For once, maybe Magnus had been right.

Reaching up to wipe his brow, Berwald stared down at the soldier, as drops of blood spattered down into his lap from his head wound, reopened in the struggle, and he found that he was absolutely confounded.

Because even though he understood, perhaps, the training of a soldier and the refusal to ever give up, in this instance he felt that the German's kicking and hissing and spitting was absolutely _insane_. Insane! Why? Why was the German fighting? Hadn't Timo told him that he was going back to his comrades? Hadn't it been understood that they were going to set him _free_? He didn't understand why the idiot was fighting so hard to get away when they had already offered him salvation.

Insane.

As the German's chest heaved up and down as he gasped for breath, Timo saw an opportunity and came forward, back straight and a very stern look in his eye. With careful movements, he grabbed up the boots from the snow, and knelt down.

"I'm putting your boots on," Timo called up from down below, as he held one of the soldier's shoes within his hands, "So sit still, alright?"

Berwald kept a firm grip, but the German just stared ahead, brow creased and lips pursed as he began to breathe through his nose, and he didn't say a word.

Berwald realized that the soldier's feet were cut up and raw.

Must have hurt like hell to run like he did, and yet he had pushed forward anyway.

Looking a bit hesitant, Timo reached forward, tentatively, and took the German's left foot in his hand.

He fell backwards just in time to dodge the other foot that aimed for his face.

"Son of a bitch," Timo spat beneath his breath, and with a great sigh of frustration, he reclaimed the German's foot and tried again, jerking it forward none-too-gently.

This time, no blow came, and maybe the German was considering that the benefits of shoes outweighed the undignified treatment of a child. He sat still, and Timo laced up his boots with sure hands, muttering to himself incoherently and no doubt wondering the same things as Berwald.

Crazy, fighting back when you were on your way to see your countrymen.

Glancing out the corner of his eye at irritated Magnus, who was watching from behind with eagle eyes, he couldn't help but wonder if the German was just one and the same as the Dane. Maybe the soldier held the same opinion as Magnus, that such a venture was just a childish fantasy.

Maybe the soldier knew something they didn't.

"There!" Timo said, as he pulled himself to his feet and clapped his hands together to free them of mud and snow, "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

The German crinkled his nose and lifted his chin, turning primly away and averting his gaze. A vision of pride, even looking so dirty and damaged.

"Let's get goin'," Timo finally said, after a silence, and Berwald nodded his head.

As an afterthought, Magnus tossed out, "Tie his hands behind his back first. Tight."

They did.

Then, after making sure that the doors were locked securely and that there was nothing sharp or dangerous for the German to grab a hold of, it was with trembling hands that Berwald threw himself down into the driver's seat, gripping the wheel for dear life, and started the ignition.

Timo sat at his side, and it was just like the ride here had been. Only this time, the soldier was awake, glaring holes at them from the backseat and sending shifty looks this way and that. Observing and calculating. A perfect engine of resourcefulness and cunning.

They had to hurry, before the German outwitted them again.

Magnus must have been thinking the same thing, or maybe he was just ready to get this whole mess over with, for he reversed so quickly down the hill that he nearly went right into the forest.

Berwald followed him, as Timo kept an eye on the back.

Timo's hand was ever upon his gun as the vehicles crept down the slushy road, tires sinking down in the mud and rocking back and forth as the uneven road twisted down past the town, in the opposite direction of which the German had run.

Here, there were only forests, as far as the eye could see. Untouched land, dotted here and there with pristine lakes, quiet and calm and desolate.

Wilderness.

He glanced in the rearview mirror frequently, twitching anxiously, but the German just stared out of the window, and seemed to be losing his battle with shock. Pulse racing in his neck, despite the look of lethargy upon his face, he sat still, and it was obvious that everything was catching up to him. They'd be lucky if he could still walk by the time they got there.

Maybe Timo was thinking the same thing.

"Lie down," he said, still twisted in his seat as he kept a secure eye on their catch, "You should rest up. You'll be there before you know it."

Comforting words, but the German only pressed his forehead against the glass, watching the trees pass with dazed, bleary eyes.

Moments of silence. The forests passed.

"Aren't you sleepy?" Timo asked, calmly.

Silence.

"Try not to worry so much. Once you're in Norway, they'll take you to a hospital and have you feelin' better in no time!"

It occurred to Berwald that Timo's German was much better than his own. Smooth and easy, flowing with a quirky, pleasant accent. Not the choppy, clumsy words that tumbled from his lips whenever he spoke that tricky language. And yet Timo's comforting voice and suave words seemed to have only a dismal effect on the German, who suddenly closed his eyes and shook his head to himself, swaying a bit as he sought to keep from just pitching forward into unconsciousness.

A long, crushing quiet, and then a dreary whisper from behind.

"These forests are old. Aren't a lot of places left like these..."

Well. That was...

Odd.

Timo furrowed his brow, and he and Berwald shared a look.

"Hey!" Timo called, a hint of worry in his voice, "Is your head hurting? Hey! Look at me."

The soldier did, slowly, and Timo squinted his eyes to observe him with hawkish scrutiny.

A hand was raised.

"How many fingers am I holding up?"

Berwald glanced back.

Three.

The German only tilted his head to the side, and after a moment of concentration, he ignored Timo's inquiry and turned his eyes back to the window and said, "Sweden's nice, isn't it? ...don't really need to go to Norway."

Timo's hand fell back down onto his gun, and now his look was a bit alarmed.

Switching easily from German to Swedish, he caught Berwald's eye and grumbled, lowly, "I think he took one too many bumps to the head. You think he even really knows what's going on? Christ, he might be about ready to throw the spoon, if you know what I mean."

Berwald pursed his lips, and shook his head.

Well, maybe that could explain it. The German fought so hard because he had been knocked senseless, and when on the verge of death, all thought was gone; only instincts remained. He fought because that was what he had been trained to do, and because he was unable to comprehend and grasp that he was being led to safety.

That made more sense.

And yet...

Uncertain and mistrustful, he only said, "Just keep watchin' him."

Timo obeyed.

The minutes turned into a long, quiet hour, and then another, and still they drove, Berwald struggling to keep up with Magnus' racing car up ahead.

The German didn't move. He just sat there, resting his head against the glass and breathing strangely, possibly trying to stave off the darkness of sleep and death. Maybe he was gathering his strength for one last tussle.

For the first time, Berwald spoke up.

"Hey."

After a second, the German turned his weary head, and blinked, slowly and lethargically.

Listening.

"Listen," he began, as Timo's hand was a mere hair-trigger above the handle of his gun, "It's not hard, alright? Can ya walk? All ya gotta do is walk. I'm gonna stand you there in front of 'em, alright? Just walk. Straight. Don't stop. Can ya do that?"

He waited, but there was no answer, and the soldier fell back into the corner, yet again pressing against the glass.

Timo furrowed his brow, and shifted uncomfortably. Berwald felt a twinge of disappointment.

Hadn't the soldier understood? Maybe his accent was too thick. He had very nearly turned to Timo and asked him to repeat that small request in his smoother tongue, but before he could utter a word, the German said something very strange.

"Stop. Turn around."

The words were so low and so thick that they were almost lost to the air, and Berwald could not help but look up into the mirror.

"What?"

The German was leaning forward now, his bound hands twisting restlessly behind his back, shoulders lifting up and down as he stared at them.

"Go back."

Timo straightening up in his seat, his look wide-eyed and astounded.

"You—don't you understand what's goin' on? You're alright. We're not gonna hurt you. Just be still. Don't you understand what we're saying? We're taking you to your friends, okay?"

It should have been comforting, but it wasn't. The German began to fidget, turning his pale eyes back and forth between the windows. Not a good sign. A weak whisper.

"No, stop. Turn around. Go back. You're going the wrong way."

"Sit still!" Timo cried, his voice high as the German scooted himself to the other side of the car and pressed against it, looking desperate for escape.

What the hell was going on with this man? Something was off.

Danger.

"This isn't the right way," the soldier muttered to himself, and Berwald found himself pressing the gas pedal into the floorboard in an attempt to make this trip go faster.

Before something bad happened. The soldier was becoming increasingly alert.

"Shit, Berwald, what are we gettin' ourselves into?" Timo asked, anxiously, as the soldier scooted from one side to the other, in an apparent attempt to pick out a weakness in his prison, searching for a thin spot in the glass or a loose item to grab.

Not good. Not good. The panic was mounting.

Magnus, alone up ahead, had no idea of what was going on in this car. Would he know if something suddenly went amiss and they needed help?

Sounds of shuffling. Muttering. The German's deep, rumbling voice was all the more intimidating and imposing when he was muttering. Maybe the concussion was making him act this way.

Timo's voice was nearly as deep, from alarm. "Hurry up, Berwald. Go faster."

He pressed the gas.

Dread. The sounds of movement and scuffling stopped. Everything was quiet.

Timo twitched, and had nearly sighed in relief.

And then there was a great, dull thud, and Berwald twisted around in alarm, and it was with a lurch of absolute horror that he saw the soldier tilting his body to one side and then slamming himself into the door as hard as he could, in a desperate, crazed attempt to break free of the vehicle.

Eyes distracted, there was a great clatter and the car shook up and down, and he turned his attention back to the road just in time to avoid falling straight into a ditch, gripping the steering wheel to keep from swerving as Timo cried, angrily, "Hey! Knock it off! What are you doing? Stop!"

The German didn't, slamming himself over and over again, and when Berwald heard the car door creaking threateningly with the pressure, he knew he had no choice.

Risking losing Magnus ahead, he yanked the steering wheel to the left and skidded off the road, coming to a halt in the muddy field.

The engine died down.

All he could think was, 'Shit.'

Not good. The door might have been compromised. Goddamn crazy son of a bitch.

Timo pulled out his gun.

A click.

As soon as the car was still and nothing moved, Berwald kicked open his door, more angry than he was scared, and when he stalked out and wrenched the back door open, it was to quickly grab up the soldier's collar and give him a firm, frustrated throttle, barely keeping his fingers from closing around the German's throat.

The urge to strangle was heavy. Frustration was overwhelming.

"Won't ya sit still?" he shouted, furiously, and when the soldier just stared up at him, defiantly, he gave the blithering idiot a final shake and then shoved him back into the seat and pulled out his own gun with a quick hand.

He could hear the screech of tires on the road as Magnus grinded to a halt ahead, finally aware that he had lost the flank.

Hurry up.

Timo leapt out of the passenger's seat, sinking down into the mud, and sloshed through it to rush to his side.

Two guns were suddenly pointed at the German's head, and yet he didn't really seem to even _notice_. He just stared up at them, body tense, and said, dazedly, "Hey! Let me out here."

..._what_?

It took every ounce of restraint not to reach out and slap the soldier across the face, if only to try and knock some sense into him.

"What's wrong with ya?" was all Berwald managed in the end, and the German's dazed look faded into darkness.

A storm on the horizon.

"Let me out."

They stood firm before him. He could hear the other car screeching back in reverse.

Magnus was rushing.

A dull, loud thunk from above as the car went from road down a ditch and into the field. They only looked up for a second. Just a second.

It happened quickly.

Seeing their eyes distracted if only by a twitch, the German burst forward like a tiger, despite the guns aimed at him, and they were so caught off guard and so stunned at his boldness and fearlessness that he almost broke right by them as their fingers froze on the triggers, knowing that they couldn't shoot him.

He ran.

Timo's quick fingers shot out and caught the soldier by his bound hands, pulling him back until he fell into the mud. Berwald leapt forward atop of him.

It wasn't so easy this time, and even though his hands were bound behind his back and his hair was matted with blood and he could hardly breathe, the soldier rolled over, given room to wriggle and slip away by the soft ground beneath him, and an absolutely titanic struggle ensued.

The German fought like a lion.

Even without his hands he was still damn near impossible to get next to, rolling and dodging around them, and he was not afraid of the gun, no matter how hard it was pressed into him or where. Their own words turned against them, no doubt, and the soldier ignored the gun as easily as one ignored a fly, because he knew that they couldn't shoot him because they had told him several times that they _needed _him.

A mistake.

Writhing this way and that, he continually broke out of Timo's grasp, and when Berwald tried to come near, a swift leg shot out with surprising accuracy, forcing him back. When Berwald actually managed to grab his collar from behind, the German's bound hands became a weapon too, as he dug fingernails hard enough into his skin to draw blood, even from above the fabric of his shirt.

Timo came too close and found himself forehead to forehead with a particularly energetic head-butt.

A dazed moment of confusion.

Christ almighty, the German just wouldn't go down.

They couldn't put him down.

Agitation and aggression were replaced with absolute terror. The German would fight to the death. Anything went. Scratching, biting, kicking, hitting, clawing, pushing, pulling, tackling, anything and everything to get away.

Berwald had never been engaged in such a pitiless grapple for life itself, never fighting like this. He had gotten into brawls, far too many to count, in drunken stupors in bars and on the street, but never like _this_; never where intent to harm went far beyond incapacitating and into murder.

The soldier would kill them if he had to, to get away.

Timo was knocked down to the ground.

The German rolled away from them somehow, covered in mud and sweat and blood, and he pulled himself to his feet, leaving a kneeling Berwald a foot to the ribs as a parting gift, and with gasping breaths made a mad dash for the street. But Timo caught his pant-leg at the last moment and brought him down, and the second the soldier hit the ground he was kicking out again, one of his boots hitting the underside of the car hard enough to knock the muffler sideways.

Nothing stopped him.

For a moment, Berwald was _scared_. Frightened that maybe this ruthless determination would pay off, that maybe the German could somehow fight his way out of this, or that he would become so dangerous that he would force Berwald to shoot him right there and take hope for Lukas along with him to the grave.

He heard Magnus shouting from a distance, as he came sprinting over, sliding down the muddy incline.

Timo was on top of the German, trying to pin him down. To no avail. Timo was strong, but the German was stronger, and finally Timo was shaken off and tossed aside without a second glance. Berwald tried to catch up to him as he ran again, this time for the forest, in what was surely an attempt to throw them off his trail within the trees.

Berwald caught him by only a millimeter, his fingers grasping the coarse fabric of the dull-green uniform.

He got too close.

The German jerked his head back with a grunt of determination, hitting Berwald square in the nose and cracking his glasses in the middle. His vision went black. Dazed, his grip slackened and he tripped over his own feet and down onto one knee.

The soldier was quick to turn around, taking advantage of his stunned second, and with numbing force, he pulled back his leg and kicked Berwald as hard as he could in the chest, his steel-toed boot connecting right where the ribs met the abdomen.

A blazing pain. The wind was knocked out him, and he fell back onto the ground.

Hard.

Breathless and already feeling the blood rushing into his mouth, he could only lay there and stare up a the white sky, dazed and hurt and painfully immobile.

Pounding in his ears.

Time slowed.

He couldn't breathe. The world seemed miles away.

White sky.

Silly thoughts in the depths of darkness.

It occurred to him that maybe it had been a blessing in disguise that the German had knocked him back down onto the ground, after days of running here and there and not sleeping and not resting, and this was surely the only way he was ever going to allow himself to sit still and get some shut-eye. He could have slept quite easily right there.

Sleep.

Field. Bed. Same thing.

He could have gone to sleep.

Timo.

The white sky melded into the tall dark pines in the remnants of his glasses.

Timo wasn't down yet.

He could have just gone to sleep, and yet despite the burning in his abdomen and the blood that began to trickle down his chin, he somehow pulled himself up at the waist, if only because the situation was dire and Timo was still fighting, and he couldn't stop and make another great mistake. Digging his fingers into the mud to balance himself, he looked ahead through bleary eyes, hearing only a whooshing and seeing only darkness.

His head hurt.

His vision cleared after seconds, and he could see the worst possible outcome beyond the bleary windows of his cracked glasses.

Timo was on the ground too, trying to push himself up, his arms shaking so fiercely that he could see it even beneath his bulky coat, and the German was leaving them behind like dust, limping as fast as he could without collapsing towards the trees. Getting away. Berwald tried to stand. He faltered, falling back down into the mud.

The German's form was ever farther away.

Disappearing into the mists.

No hope.

Before he could bring himself even up to his knees, as the dull thudding in his ears faded and he could hear again, he raised his eyes just in time to see Magnus reaching the scene and taking the soldier down with a great leap.

Timo was up first, rushing over to the scene of the new struggle, where Magnus was flailing to control the snarling wolf.

Cries and curses.

He couldn't seem to make it up past his knees. Hurt like hell to breathe.

Maybe he was past his prime for all of this.

The shouting ahead finally stopped.

Feeling rather useless and certainly mortified, he finally dragged himself up to his unsteady feet and wobbled over to them, and the sight ahead was a wonderful thing. Magnus had the German pressed down into the mud, a knee in his back, and Timo was all but sitting on his legs to keep him still, their hands keeping him shoved down into the soft earth.

It was obvious, though, by the rasping way the soldier was breathing, that the fight was over.

Reaching them, Berwald leaned down and grabbed the soldier's collar in a shaking hand, and with Magnus' assistance, pulled the Wehrmacht up out of the mud and onto his backside.

No struggle this time.

Timo reached up and wiped his brow, shaking his head in what could have been disbelief.

Berwald shared the sentiment, and placed his hand on the German's shoulder, keeping him pressed firmly down, if only to appear a bit more useful than he had actually been.

With the soldier in Berwald's grasp, Magnus fell back a bit, his hand settling upon his nose as he turned eyes back up to the car.

A thick, humorless snort.

"Piece of shit now," he mumbled through his palm, and Berwald nearly scoffed.

The car was the least of his concerns, but he looked up at it nonetheless, and could see that it was certainly, as Magnus declared, a veritable piece of shit.

Door hanging off by its hinges, muffler dragging down into the dirt, paint scraped and scratched, dents in the side from the soldier's boots and looking nothing like the shiny vehicle it had been only minutes earlier.

The car looked like it had just been tossed out of the center of a tornado. He probably looked the same, and certainly Timo did.

The German looked like he had crawled up right out of hell.

Sitting on the ground, pushed down into the mud and snow by his shoulders beneath Berwald's hands, he ducked his head down close to his knees, panting so heavily for breath that Berwald could hear the gasping rattle as his lungs struggled to cope with the overload. His pulse pounded in his neck, the rising and falling of flowing blood visible even to Berwald up above. Blood ran everywhere, staining his uniform and coating his hair and seeping into the ground itself. The German's shoulder had no doubt been dislocated; a strange angle and the feel of something suspicious under his palm was a good indicator.

Too much.

"Damaged goods," Magnus muttered aloud, and, sure enough, the soldier suddenly slumped forward, his head now so far down between his splayed legs that his forehead was pressing into the muddy field, his struggle for air renewed with heavy gasps. There was a danger, perhaps, of his heart pounding so furiously that it would just give out completely and he would drop dead right there. His ghostly paleness was certainly a sign that something was amiss within.

Just too much. Dumb kid had pushed himself too far.

Everyone had been pushed too far. He looked up, and took them in.

Magnus' nose was pouring blood. Crimson spilled from between his fingers as he stood there, staring ahead in a daze and completely still, dripping in a steady stream down into the muddled snow. Possibly broken. His messy clothes were stained and torn and all but worthless, his golden hair soaked and clinging to his scalp and face. He looked dark. Brooding. Unusually belligerent, even for a constant trouble-starter.

Timo's pale skin and hair were dark with a mottled mixture of blood and dirt. A wound on his forehead was covered by a shaking hand. His entire body was shaking, for that matter, underneath his coat as his body tried to recover from the shock. Chest heaving in exhaustion and dripping sweat, despite the cold air. Battered and bruised and yet still standing.

Berwald wasn't sure how he looked, but he knew how he felt.

His stomach and chest hurt like holy hell, and he had no doubt that if he had lifted up his shirt, he would have seen rather ugly bruises already forming, framed on either side by shallow gashes made by the soldier's nails. Breathing hurt. Might have cracked a rib when the German had used his chest as a glorified football. The inside of his mouth was full of blood; a strong, unpleasant taste of metal.

Everything was blurry. His glasses were scratched and cracked almost to the point of destruction. Despite it all, despite the blood and the pain and the weariness, _that _irritated him more than anything. His glasses. Couldn't see shit without his glasses.

Timo would be driving from here on out.

They stood there, a half circle around the spent soldier, and no one spoke.

What a brawl.

"Well," Timo finally said, shakily, "Now what?"

Good question. There was no way they could go on like this. Not like this, not when their ticket to Lukas' freedom was now an immobile, beaten mess upon the ground. There was no way.

It couldn't happen.

"Oh, fuck it all," Magnus spat thickly from behind his hand. "He wants to go? Let's just leave him here. See how long he lasts out in the middle of nowhere. Fuck him."

Berwald had no rebuttal. He almost shared the feeling.

"Oh," Timo suddenly moaned, "This isn't gonna work! We should've thought about this better. This isn't gonna work, not with him like this... _Oh_, what were we _thinking_?"

Berwald hung his head, ashamed.

"We should just go back," Timo continued, in a rare moment of dismal hopelessness, "It's already too late. We messed up. We can't help him. Let's just go back."

Berwald didn't want to admit defeat.

He tried to straighten up, and at least act like a leader, even if he didn't much feel like one.

"We can at least still go and figure out if he's alive," Berwald said, ignoring Magnus' dreary little giggles, "and maybe we can still get him over there. We can still do it. If Lukas is alive, then we still have a shot."

Magnus, pinching his nose to try and stop the flow of blood, gave a great sigh and muttered, nasally, "Do what you want, you big idiot, just do what you want. Who cares?"

With that, he tuned on his heel and pulled himself heavily up the slope, heading back towards the car with wide steps, grumbling under his breath and throwing out his fist in agitation.

Timo just stood there, and finally whispered, "Berwald, we should just go back instead."

The German was gasping for air.

Everyone was against him.

"Or," Timo offered, seeing his reluctance to back down, "We could always just take him down to those guys that stay near Stockholm. They'd give us some good ammo for him. A Wehrmacht."

Berwald sent him a look, spitting blood onto the ground and raising his voice to be heard above the rattle of the German's breathing.

"You know what they'll do to him, don't ya?"

Timo's eyes darkened.

"Yeah, I know. But if someone's gonna do it, better be someone else than us. We can go without that on our hands."

Timo looked down at the German, and shifted uncomfortably.

"And you'd be alright with that?" Berwald asked, carefully, and it didn't need to be said that Germans who were caught by some rebels never saw the light of day again, sometimes in horrible ways, but Timo finally shrugged a shoulder and averted his eyes.

"No. But I'd get over it. After a while."

Well. What could he do? Everyone was against him. Even the goddamn German, who by all rights should have been cooperating more than anyone. None of them believed in his plan.

An impatient cry from up above.

"I'm about to leave! Shoot him or come on!"

A wave of defeat washed over him, standing alone in his opinion and without backup, and he sighed as he forced himself to move, lifting his feet and trying to drag the German along by his collar up the slope. Timo jumped in to help, taking an arm with a tentative look.

What a mess.

Feeling himself being moved, the German looked up at them, cold-sweating and panting and looking like he was about to vomit, and after a moment of great struggling, he found his voice and began to speak, weakly and yet obviously in an attempt to negotiate, from the smoother tone.

Negotiate. For what?

"Hey," he began, in a whisper so shaky and low that it was scarcely audible above the wind, "Listen. Why don't you just drop me off somewhere? Here, even! You can just leave me here."

Timo sent him a strange look, as they dragged him like a dog up the hill, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

Such strange statements, even for someone so knocked around.

Unnerving, somehow.

Reaching the car, they tossed him yet again into the backseat, and Berwald tried to shut the door, jamming it back into place as best he could for the way it was bending.

Magnus started the car ahead, and sat, waiting impatiently.

Berwald fell down into the passenger's seat, and the urge to sleep was very present as he rested his elbow upon the windowsill, running a hand over the sore bridge of his nose. Too much stress.

Timo came in at his side, and when he turned the key and started the engine, the German, seemingly alarmed and almost desperate, spoke up again.

What he said was absolutely astounding.

"If I told you that I don't want to go to Norway...would that make a difference?"

Feeling suddenly so dazed that even the aching in his chest didn't bother him anymore, Berwald twisted in his seat and stared back, piercing blue eyes meeting his own, and he was certain that he had just misheard.

Maybe he had hit his head, too.

Reaching up to wipe the drying blood from his chin with an absent hand, he only managed to say, "What was that?"

The soldier, or at least the dirty, battered, exhausted shell of him, leaned forward, his pale eyes blazing alarmingly bright from within his dirty, bloody face, breathing short and shallow and body rigid.

Bristling as though being shocked, no doubt bursting with adrenaline.

He said, again, "I don't want to go to Norway."

Timo looked back too, in shock. "What did you say?"

Maybe sensing that he was close to getting what he wanted, the soldier finally stopped twitching and fidgeting, and fell frighteningly still, going quickly from electricity to stoniness.

"I'm not going to Norway."

Ahead, Magnus honked the horn impatiently. Berwald barely even heard it.

The German stared at them, unblinking and unwavering. Hardly even breathing.

Timo leaned back, so surprised at what was being said that he didn't seem to realize he was putting his face very close to the head of a man who had already shown a great fondness for using it as a weapon.

"What are you saying?" he asked, and the soldier leapt upon the question immediately.

"Leave me here! Leave me in Sweden. I'm not going to Norway."

Berwald's mouth very nearly fell open in shock. Timo's did. They shared a look.

Something was not right with this.

Perplexed, Berwald narrowed his eyes and grumbled, "What're ya playin' at, huh?"

The pale, tired soldier gave a breathless laugh.

"No game. Let me stay in Sweden."

"Why?" Timo asked, quickly, voice low and suspicious.

The German furrowed his brow. "Don't worry about _why_," he tossed back, snippily, "Just untie these fuckin' ropes and let me get the hell out of here. I'm not goin' with you, wherever you're trying to take me."

Not amused, Timo snapped back, "We're _trying _to take you back to your _friends_! You understand that, or what? What's going on with you?"

A silence. The soldier's look became dark and dangerous.

"I don't have any friends," he hissed, lowly, "And I'm _not _going to Norway. No matter what you do."

No matter what, huh? He would see about that.

Pulling out his gun yet again and pressing it into the German's muddy forehead, Berwald pushed him back and grunted, "What if I said that yer goin'"—he pulled back the hammer—"whether ya like it or not?"

No movement, and he was hardly even startled that the German did not flinch, not even a bit, as he sat there with a gun pressed into his head. Not even a twitch.

Well, he hadn't been afraid of it before. Why start now?

Then he narrowed his pale eyes, crossed his legs and lifted his good shoulder, and said, defiantly, "Make me."

Berwald was _certain_, then, that he had hit his head. Had to have. This was not happening. It wasn't.

He needed a _damn_ good explanation for this entire ordeal.

"Why don't ya wanna go back to 'em?"

The explanation he sought was denied, and the German neatly ignored his inquiry with a pursing of his lips.

"I'm not going," was the only response he got, and the soldier turned up his pale eyes, catching his gaze with a frightening intensity. A solemn oath. "I won't go. I'll make you shoot me right there in front of them. I won't go."

His gun almost fell. A sense of dread.

Well, there went Lukas' chance right out the window.

Because if the German was really serious (and boy, did he look it!) and they tried an exchange at the border, it would not end well. Lukas would start walking, but instead of keeping his end of the bargain, the German would just stand there, and then he'd turn around and come at them, and maybe Berwald would have no choice but to shoot him. The Germans, in turn, would shoot Lukas before he could complete the journey, and a battle would begin, surely ending in catastrophe for this little group.

What could he do?

This wouldn't work. How could you force the hand of a man who was not afraid of anything, even death? This stupid soldier was not living up to the invaluable bounty that he should have been.

Just trouble.

Magnus had seen it.

Agitated and not really knowing what else to do, Berwald turned to Timo and grumbled, "Turn around. We're goin' back. We'll figure somethin' else out. Fuck it."

Timo stared at him for a stunned second, and then nodded his head, and put the car into reverse. There was no doubt, as they went in the opposite direction, that Magnus was shouting every obscenity he knew inside of the other car, banging his fists on the steering wheel and wondering what the fuck everyone was doing.

They were clueless. It was really shameful.

There was one person, at least, who seemed pleased, and when the German realized that they were not continuing the journey to the Norwegian border, he fell back into his seat with a great sigh, and fell immediately into unconsciousness, shocked body giving in to exhaustion.

Shaking his head and feeling sick, Berwald pressed the side of the gun into his own forehead in exasperation, and grumbled, "I don't even know what I'm doin' anymore."

Timo, hands shaking on the wheel, shook his head.

"Yeah. Me neither."

Awkwardness.

What a mess. This might have meant the end of his leadership here.

He was proving to be incompetent. One member gone. Two losing faith. One troublesome German soldier.

The ride back home seemed like days rather than hours. A walk of shame.

The German was quiet and still in the backseat, his breathing steady and deep. At least one of them was resting easy.

The blurry landscape flew by, his damaged glasses lending little aid to his vision as he rested his chin in his palm, tired and sick with worry and chest burning.

Timo didn't speak at all on the ride back.

He didn't really realize when they pulled into the drive, lost up in his head and mentally preparing himself for a loner's life again. Timo and Magnus might part ways with him after this whole thing.

Alone again. The story of his life.

A car door shutting brought him out of his stupor, and he saw the house looming up ahead of him. Timo was at the back door, waiting. Magnus came stomping up from behind. He sat still. Reluctant to move. Numb.

He could already hear Magnus' big mouth.

"Now what are we doin'? Huh? What the hell are we doin' now? If we were just gonna come back, then we coulda just left him out there! Why are we bringin' him back here? Doesn't anyone know what they're doing?"

Heart pounding and stomach twisting, he finally pulled himself out of the car, feeling a burning stretch in his side as he did so, and without sparing a glance at volatile Magnus, he and Timo banded together to drag the unconscious soldier back up the steps.

Magnus only stood there, looking irate and confused.

Berwald didn't bother to try and explain anything. He didn't really know what he could say, anyway. He couldn't admit his mistakes, and Magnus picked apart his reasoning with ruthlessness.

Better to stay quiet.

Timo opened the door, and before he knew it, they were back exactly where they had been before, with a soldier in the house and nothing to do with him, and still no Lukas.

First base, again.

Lukas was surely already lost.

As soon as the soldier was tossed down onto the bed, Berwald turned on his heel and walked off, not even bothering to tie him to the post. For what? The German had made it clear that he had no interest in leaving Sweden. There was surely nothing else left within him to fuel him on another run, anyway, not after all of that.

Timo would sit with him and keep an eye on him.

Ambling off down the wall, he trudged up the stairs and, for the first time in days, walked into his bedroom.

Almost a strange sight.

Quickly, he collapsed upon the bed, dirty as he was, and buried his face in his pillow, taking small comfort in the smell of clean linen and air that was not laden with blood and dirt, his boots dangling off the edge.

He was _tired_.

Darkness rolled upon him quickly.

As he faded in and out of sleep, time dragging into an endless stream, he thought he heard raised voices from down below.

Timo and Magnus arguing.

He would rather that they argued amongst themselves than band together to bad-mouth him. He would rather that Timo shouted at Magnus than whispered at him.

The sun was low in the horizon. Darkness all around.

He drifted here and there.

His thoughts became strange at times, when he floated into the realm of unconsciousness. Reality blurred into dream. Whispers and voices and feelings of alarm and vulnerability.

The faces of the dead appeared to haunt him, as they often did.

Faces of the soldiers he'd killed. Burnt, bloody, hollow-eyed and pale and always staring, peering out of closets and shadows and from beneath the bed, even from behind the shimmering curtain as it fluttered in the breeze of the night.

They never really went away.

Time passed in a blur of stress and agitation. Sleep came and went. Heavy and drowsy, but not refreshing. The kind of sleep where you woke up more exhausted than before.

He vaguely heard the ringing of the phone from below.

Doubt. Uncertainty. Same old things.

He started upright only when the door of his room was pushed open, and a voice drifted in.

"Berwald?"

Friendly. Not a dead man's voice.

Looking over, rolling quickly upright in a bit of embarrassment, he saw Timo standing there in the frame, looking clean and freshly-dressed, and Berwald noticed right off that Timo was smiling.

Smiling?

Timo's next words said it all.

"Lukas is safe."

A moment of stunned silence, and then the relief came flooding in like the breaking of a dam, and he only managed to ask, huskily, "How?"

Timo only waved a hand and shrugged a shoulder.

"Who knows! Just got a call from him. Can you believe it? He's in some little store near the highway down south. Who knows how he gets out of these things. Just when you think he's dead for sure, he pops back up!" Leaning in a bit further, obviously in a much better mood, Timo tossed him a careless, amicable wink, adding airily, "Sometimes I wonder if he's really just Lemminkäinen."

Berwald almost giggled in absolute disbelief, the sudden knowledge that Lukas was alive battling his depression and hopelessness and leaving him feeling quite numb.

"He's on his way back?"

"No," Timo quipped, "Said he was goin' down to Stockholm for a little bit."

"What for?"

"Shopping! Said he's got a brand new car to bring home, too. A German car."

Berwald could only snort and bow his head to keep a straight face, and Timo carried on his merry way, with the bouncing steps of renewed confidence, leaving him to sit alone in his silence.

It took a few minutes to sink in.

He was glad that Lukas was safe.

And whether or not Lukas had some hidden magical abilities that he had yet to reveal to his mortal companions was not as great an interest to _him _as it was to Timo. He didn't care if Lukas was a sorcerer or a shape-shifter or a demon or a fairy or just really fuckin' _lucky_—just as long as he was safe and sound and around to connect those cables and fix those fuses.

Not only that; Lukas' safety ensured his position. A selfish thought, for sure, but one he valued nonetheless. Because once Lukas was back, it was no harm, no foul. Magnus had no reason to rebel. One great obstacle overcome.

Reaching up and running dirty fingers through his matted, muddy hair, he heaved a great sigh, and pulled himself to his feet, nearly bumping into the end-table for his scratched glasses.

He'd have to get new ones.

There was only left one thing to settle, then.

The soldier, and his strange attitude towards returning to his comrades.

Walking unsteadily to his door, he turned his feet towards the stairs and made a line for the soldier down below, seeking to figure out this position a little better now that Lukas' life was not dangling up above his head.

When he landed off the last stair, he heard a muffled grunt of pain from within the bedroom where the soldier lied, and, feeling that old rush of panic, rushed towards the door.

This time there was no brawl.

Just the soldier sitting up on the bed, back in the real word and slumping forward, holding himself upright by an elbow, and he had cried out because Timo, standing above, had shoved his dislocated shoulder back into its socket.

"There," Timo muttered, mostly to himself, "Think I got it!"

The German grunted, and bowed his head, jaw clenched so tightly that his pulse was visible. Timo only smiled and slapped his shoulder gently, "Did I get it?"

Hissing in pain at Timo's airy pat, he ground out, "Yeah, I think you got it."

"Told ya!"

Berwald froze up in the frame as he took in the scene, and he realized with a jolt of horror that the German's hands were no longer tied.

Timo had cut them loose.

He nearly groaned, 'Oh, for Christ's sake!' but didn't have time, for Timo looked up at him, and said, casually, "Hey, Berwald, maybe you should go get that vodka out of the car."

He didn't move, choosing instead to stare at them.

Timo checking over the soldier, ignoring his own wounds to tend to the captive's. The soldier allowing him to poke and prod, tense and rigid and yet no longer showing any signs of aggression.

The Finn and the German, enemies and yet not.

He could have slapped his forehead.

It shouldn't have surprised him. Timo's bouts of aggression had always been directed at the Soviets. Never the Germans, to whom many Finns had been trained by and had also sworn allegiance to. The Finns and the Germans who could share a dislike of the Soviets and maybe even work together for it. That was why it was easier for Timo to sit here with him and not be quite as frightened and mistrustful as Berwald and Magnus were. That was why Timo had unbound his hands and served as an on-site medic, taking a care of the German's well-being and being soft-spoken and well-mannered.

Timo admired the Germans.

Always had.

The German finally looked over at Berwald standing in the frame, the dark circles under his eyes a striking contrast to his pale skin and paler eyes. As tired as the rest, but cleaned up a bit. Timo had obviously led him to the bathroom for a quick washing.

His hair lit up as fiery as Timo's in the light of the lamp.

Berwald stared at him impassively, and he moved his shoulder this way and that, absently, and finally turned his eyes back to Timo, who he obviously found to be friendlier, muttering something that Berwald did not catch. Timo shifted his weight anxiously. It was obvious they had been speaking for some time.

Fraternizing, actually.

His head began to pound.

Timo was watching him, nervously. Up to something.

"What is it?" he finally grumbled, and Timo straightened up, a weak smile upon his face.

"Well, I wanted to talk to you about something."

Berwald waited.

Timo foundered a bit, and began to shift his weight.

"Well, actually, I guess _we _wanted to talk to you. That is, ah..."

The German kept glancing back at him, and Berwald could see the welts around his wrists from where the rope had burned into him, his fingers bruised and looking somewhat stiff from lack of proper blood flow.

Watching him, calmly and coolly.

Finally, Timo took a great, deep breath, and said, quietly, "He's defecting."

A heavy silence, and Berwald could have dropped then and there from the shock, as his headache exploded into agony.

Because what were the _odds_? Of all the soldiers on that train, of the hundreds of them, what were the chances of him grabbing the only one on there that lacked patriotism? What were the chances of him grabbing the only goddamn one that would find himself in Sweden and decide that that seemed like a damn good place to be? One in a million? More?

He could only stand there, stark still and unable to move.

The German stared up at him inexpressively, completely tranquil and looking strangely dignified for someone who had been kicking him in the chest not so long ago, not to mention for someone who had just made the ultimate betrayal.

Even the word was ugly in his head.

Defector. Same thing as coward. It surprised him all the more, after the way the soldier had fought them off so _hard_.

Traitor. Even though it was the enemy that the soldier was defecting from, it almost didn't matter. To anyone who fought in a war, even just on the sidelines like they did, the word alone trailed a long curtain of shame behind it. To defect from anything, anything at all, was a disgrace.

Surely Timo thought it too, just by the way he had whispered the word.

He felt himself bristling, and crossed his arms as Timo shuffled his feet. So what? What the hell did Timo want _him_ to do about it?

Silence.

Timo finally opened his mouth, and said, tentatively, "Well. Maybe, well, we were discussing things. Well, kind of. Ah. I don't suppose it would be possible just to, you know. Let him go?"

Ha.

"Absolutely not," was his quick response, and Timo's face fell a bit.

"He's not gonna go there Berwald. What are _we_ gonna do with him? Why not just let him go?"

Why not?

The reasons were many. Maybe the German was lying. Maybe he had more sinister intentions. Maybe he would reveal their location. Maybe he was a spy. Maybe he really did want to go back to his comrades, but wanted to get the scope on things first.

Never trust a traitor.

"He doesn't wanna go to Norway? Then he'll go to Stockholm instead." At Timo's wide-eyed look, he was quick to add, "Your idea. Remember? You said so; you'll get over it."

Irritated that Berwald was turning his own words against him, Timo narrowed his eyes and sent him a look of annoyance that bordered on distaste, and it was only because he could not bear for Timo to look at him like that that Berwald relented a little.

"We can't let him go. Think about what you wanna do with him."

Timo's lips pursed and his eyes darkened, and when Berwald turned and walked out of the room, he heard footsteps following behind him.

For once, Timo chasing after him was not particularly welcome.

"Berwald! You're really gonna give him off to the other groups? You know what they'll do to him! I mean, yeah I said it, but that was before! He's defecting! He's a refugee now, not a soldier! How can you still wanna hand him off?"

Head aching and chest stinging, he found himself standing in the living room, staring out of the window as Timo hounded him from behind.

Never any rest.

"Listen, we should all sit down and talk about it—"

"Why are you leavin' him alone when he's not tied up?" he interrupted, harsher than necessary, but Timo's statement was all but reminding him that the last time he had decided something without waiting for others to input, the result had been disastrous.

Timo had reason to question him.

"He's not gonna run," Timo retorted, voice thin. "I don't think he can hardly even walk anymore, after all that! We should let him rest up until Lukas gets back, and then talk about it together."

Leaning forward and pressing his forehead into the window, irritably, Berwald sighed, breath fogging up the glass.

"Whatcha talkin' about?" came a voice from the side, and when he glanced over, Magnus was standing there, holding a glass in his hand and looking much more amicable than he had earlier. Clean and messy-haired. New clothes. Lukas' safety had obviously been a relief for him too.

"Nothing," he said, quickly, reluctant to involve Magnus in anything.

Although, in this instance, Magnus might have been on his side.

"We've got a situation," Timo said, simply, and Magnus' cheery look fell.

"What's wrong now?"

Before Timo could open his mouth, Berwald pushed off from the glass and turned around to stare at the both of them with crossed arms, grumbling testily, "Our German has blue eyes all of a sudden."

Magnus turned to Timo with a look of confusion.

Timo only stared at Berwald and said, "That's why he was on the back of the train. He was gonna jump."

The words struck him, and he remembered suddenly when the German had awoken the very first time in a daze and had said, upon seeing his bound hands, 'but I didn't jump!'

The reason he had been standing there at the back so late, why he had looked caught in the act, why he had leapt through the window only after they had told him they were taking him back, why he had destroyed the car in an effort to go in the opposite direction, why he sat so still now, untied, knowing that they would not take him to Norway.

Pieces came together.

Even now, though, he found Timo too compassionate.

Footsteps behind in the hall, nearly silent, given away only by the creaking of the floorboards, and when they turned, the German was standing in the doorframe, barefoot and wobbling and staring out at them with what almost seemed to be impatience.

Like he had been left to wait too long for an answer, and had come to get it himself.

Magnus' glass slipped from his hand, safe from shattering only because it fell atop the rug, and for a moment, Berwald thought that he was going to rush forward and tackle him again.

Timo's hand upon his arm kept him still.

The German took another step into the hall, a scratched hand upon the wall to keep his balance, his paleness gleaming out from the shadows in which he stood. He looked them back and forth in turn.

"So," he began, deep voice barely audible, "Are you going to let me leave?"

Straightening his back, Berwald waited a moment, and when nobody decided to speak up, he finally said, "No. You'll be traded off to someone else. I can get good guns for you."

In all honesty, he might have said it only to irritate Timo, whose hand was still upon Magnus' arm. It worked; Timo sent him a stern, foul look.

The German's pale face went even paler, and for a moment, he looked almost angry. As though he were somehow a hapless victim in all of this. Blameless and inconvenienced.

That was some kind of gall.

Magnus looked down at Timo, and hissed, "What's goin' on?"

Timo only shook his head, looking beleaguered.

"I said I wasn't going to go back over," the German muttered, tiredly, "What more do you want? I just want to stay in Sweden."

Berwald didn't say a word.

Let the German bat his eyes at Timo and declare himself a seeker of asylum. He didn't buy it. Something had to be lurking beneath. Something untrustworthy.

Magnus stared ahead, apparently dumbfounded, mouth hanging open.

Timo suddenly rounded on Berwald, like a viper. "Berwald!" he began testily in Swedish, "Weren't we made up by gathering refugees? Didn't you say that you'd take in anyone who needed help? Didn't you? You said anyone could stay, as long as they helped out. Remember?"

Twitching in agitation, he sent Timo a dark look, and pursed his lips.

Yeah, sure, he had said it, but he had not had _this _kind of refugee in mind. Not a defecting German soldier. Not a trained Wehrmacht. Not a young Nazi. This was different. Dangerous.

Feeling a bit threatened, he threw back, "You're awfully stuck on him! I don't think you'd be so willing if it were a Red sayin' he was tryin' to get away!"

When Timo opened his mouth and lost his voice, Berwald knew it was true. It was only because it was a German, and not a Soviet, that Timo had been so easily swayed. If it had been a Soviet, Timo would have shot him there where he stood.

Berwald didn't hold it against him; Timo was only human. Nobody was perfect.

"Just let him stay until we talk about it."

"Talk about _what_?" Magnus interjected, clearly agitated at not really knowing what was going on, and he very nearly stomped his foot.

Timo quickly filled him in, in hushed whispers, as Berwald caught the soldier's eyes from down the hall.

The soldier stared back at him, never flinching.

Waiting.

Finally, after being enlightened, Magnus offered an opinion.

One Berwald hadn't expected.

"If he wants to stay... Maybe we _should_ talk about it. If he's serious about it, then hell—think of all the shit we could learn. A Wehrmacht helpin' us out? We'd get the upper hand on the Germans. Stuff I could pass along down to the guys in the Jutland."

Berwald scoffed.

"Just 'cause he doesn't wanna go back doesn't mean he's gonna help you out against 'em."

Neatly ignoring him, Magnus looked over Timo's shoulder and said, loudly, "Hey! Hey, you!"

The German narrowed his eyes and turned up his chin, obviously irate at being addressed so, too proud to acknowledge Magnus' gaze even as he stood beaten and busted before them.

"Hey you! Hey, hey, you always been a Wehrmacht? You weren't ever in the Kriegsmarine, were ya? Think you can crack some of the navy codes, huh? Seen the Hydra, by any chance?"

Even as he said it, Magnus began to bristle in excitement. At the possibility of having a trained Wehrmacht offering secrets.

The German bristled too, but not in excitement, and when he spoke, it was to quickly spit out, "Fuck off."

Magnus' face fell. Berwald wasn't surprised; that would have been too easy.

Gave Berwald an excuse, though, to say, "If you don't wanna help out, then why would I keep ya 'round? Guns are worth more than a traitor."

The German almost looked hurt at that word, brow lowering and eyes darkening.

"I'm a traitor only to Hitler," the German suddenly proclaimed, rather defensively, "Never to Germany! The sooner the war is over, the sooner he's gone, but I won't turn against my own men. I didn't..." He trailed off, and fell silent.

Looking lost, suddenly.

Then he muttered, dismally, "I just wanted to come out here be normal. I didn't want to have to fight anyone."

Berwald crossed his arms above his chest.

The German wanted to stay here because Sweden was neutral. Lands where no war reached. If the German wanted to stay, then he wasn't going to get a free pass.

"War doesn't stop just 'cause you don't see it. You wanna get rid of him? You gotta fight."

"Big words for a Swede," the soldier retorted, snippily. "Neutral all your life."

Magnus took a step forward at the words, no aggression in his stance, and it agitated Berwald that maybe he was losing this battle with Magnus and Timo for more of a popularity contest rather than logic.

Magnus would like anyone who questioned Berwald. Timo, standing off to the side and smiling, liked him because he was seeking asylum.

Didn't they see the _danger _in this?

"Berwald, you know the right thing to do," Timo whispered from the side.

He felt put on the spot again.

...this was nothing but trouble.

Fuckin' Christ.

"You got three choices," he finally said, nearly at his wit's end, "You can go to Norway. You can go to another group. Or you can stay. But if you stay, you fight, like the rest of us."

The German stood still.

"What's it gonna be?"

Timo was bouncing up on his heels, in a much better mood now that Berwald had caved in to him. Berwald found that he always caved in to Timo, one way or another. Manipulative son of a bitch.

Finally, the German bowed his head, looking defeated. Really, the choice was all but obvious.

A deep, grumbled, "I'll stay."

The unspoken conclusion was, 'for now!' and even though the German was saying it, he really didn't believe it, and he had a nagging suspicion that the German was only waiting until he was healed up before he just snuck out of the window again and made himself at home in some other little town.

Timo spoke up, then, and superseded Berwald's authority in a second.

"Hey, you won't have to fight against any of your own. I go out a lot against the Reds! You can tag along with me if you want. If you really don't wanna fight at all, I'm sure you can do other things to help out!" Looking back at Berwald, Timo added, coolly, "Right?"

Berwald, overridden and all but a formality, muttered under his breath, and then tried to regain a sense of supremacy, and caught the German's gaze.

"You wanna stay?" he began, and even though he heard himself _saying _the words, he still couldn't really believe that this was happening.

How the hell was this happening?

Really?

The soldier nodded.

_Really_?

There it was, then. The extent of what was happening could barely register in his mind. The eagle offering services to the lion in exchange for safe-haven. Enemies extending hands. Defection.

Magnus was surprisingly quiet.

"Well. Can't stay for free," he heard himself grumble. "Ya gotta make yourself useful. What're ya good at?"

The German looked this way and that, between the three of them, and seemed to be considering and weighing their sincerity. Convinced, perhaps, by Timo's friendly eyes, he finally dropped his shoulders a bit, and said, "Well, I'm pretty good at fixing things. I'm kind of a mechanic. Self-proclaimed. Well, they used to get me to fix cables and shit whenever something around the goulash cannons broke."

Magnus tilted his head and gave an odd arch of his brow and a twitch of his lips, as though somehow tickled by this statement.

The German's chin raised as his confidence continued to grow, bolstered by Magnus' non-aggressive stance and the fact that Norway was just a memory, and he turned a very cool eye to the window, adding, "I notice your car has a busted door. I can probably fix that for you. Engine's loud. Dented up pretty bad. Your muffler's about to fall off. I can fix that, too."

The soldier nodded his head, mostly to himself, and leaned against the wall wearily, sending Berwald a look of complete seriousness.

"The way you treat that car, I'll have to hang around just to keep it running."

Berwald stood incredulously still.

Silence.

And then Magnus dissolved into loud, obnoxious laughter, and even though they hadn't _really _discussed it, that burst of howling laughter was pretty much a guarantee that the German was staying. Magnus only laughed like that at things he liked.

Magnus usually got his way. Somehow or another.

Oh. His head was _killing _him.

The four of them stood there, all of them battered and bruised and injured in some way, and the absurdity of it was almost comical. Berwald might have laughed too if he hadn't felt so fuckin' exhausted.

Timo reached out suddenly, offering his hand to the soldier.

"I'm Timo! Welcome aboard."

That wasn't happening. It couldn't be. He was probably knocked out somewhere and just dreaming.

But then the soldier, limping forward and making careful movements, reached out and took the offered hand.

A firm handshake between them. The Finn and the German.

"I'm Ludwig."

Waving a hand over his shoulder, Timo said, breezily, "That's Berwald, and that's Magnus."

Magnus offered a quick wave. Berwald only stood there, dazed and dumb.

What was going _on_?

The soldier stared at them. The soldier.

Ludwig.

Ludwig would be trouble, just like Magnus had said.

Stunned and not all there, Berwald griped, loudly, "The first thing yer doin' is gettin' out of that fuckin' uniform."

The German only nodded his head, and almost looked relieved.

Trouble.

He could feel it already, as Timo led bruised and wobbly Ludwig back to the bedroom.

Trouble, trouble, trouble.

Sure, it was any rebel group's dream to get a man with them that had come from within the very military they were declaring war against, but to keep such a strong and bold soldier in the house with them, loose and to his own devices and around weapons, just seemed like insanity.

Ludwig was defecting.

But damn! Nothing but trouble.

Complication was a pain in the ass.

Why was it always him?


	6. Solitary Man

**Chapter 6**

**Solitary Man**

The first word that had come to mind was 'suckers'.

Buncha idiots.

Unorganized, untrained, incompetent at best and absolutely clueless at worst, hopeless and inept and no doubt a disgrace to the cause they were attempting to fight for. Wandering about this way and that and tripping over their own feet and unable to tell up from down and left from right.

Idiots, all of them. So he didn't really feel _bad_, not even a little bit, that he had done everything possible to harm them, even taking those few cheap shots when they had been already down and out.

Ludwig didn't feel bad at all.

His being here was only a temporary thing, and he didn't plan on being particularly friendly during his stay. Let them continue their moronic fumbling. He was skipping town. As soon as he felt ready for a long journey and as soon as he had them off guard, he was going to run while the running was good and slip out quietly in the middle of the night, and he had absolutely every intention of taking one of the cars with him.

Soon.

For now, running was not an option.

Sore, bruised, spent and cut up and raw and exhausted, mind cloudy and vision blurry and at times feeling confused for no reason, there was no way he would have the capacity to make it out on his own, not after the blow to the head that had concussed him and after pushing himself too far in reckless brawls.

He needed time to rest.

They were letting him stay. He would use their kindness to recover, and then he would bid them farewell.

Now he was laid up in bed, drifting in and out of consciousness and always in pain, and when he did awake, most of the time it was only to a great sense of confusion and panic.

The concussion had hit him hard.

Thoughts muddled and disjointed, he usually found himself sitting inert in the same spot, unable and sometimes unwilling to move. With disorientation and confusion came a foul mood and swiftly changing emotions. Sometimes, he became angry and irate for absolutely no good reason at all. Other times, a mute sense of melancholy.

Sometimes, he just wanted to burst into tears.

He couldn't _think_. And always trapped. Trapped. He felt trapped.

Like a fuckin' mouse.

The first two days were the hardest.

He could barely walk, and it was one of the most frustrating feelings imaginable, to be so helpless, to not even be able to stand up without quickly tottering to one side before finally falling over sideways, thanks to his busted equilibrium, and even when he did manage to keep himself square and steady, it was hardly to any gain; his vision was blurred and doubled and the constant ringing in his ears made movement all but impossible.

Every time he twitched, a burst of blinding light stopped him short.

Concussions were a nightmare.

So was his immobility. Hated the feeling.

Now that his freedom and life were not immediately dangling in the balance, he couldn't seem to find that same something within him that had made movement possible before in such perilous situations. Almost as though now that his mind knew he was in a safe place, it had decided to go into hibernation.

Stuck in this little house up on the hill, not really knowing _where _he was or with whom he was with, vulnerable and helpless and wondering why nothing ever worked out like it was supposed to.

Wondering how he found himself caught by these idiots.

The two taller ones didn't bother him, not frequently, choosing to keep their distance when possible, and coming inside only for necessary tasks.

The smallest one was the one that hung around most often, sometimes there when he awoke and sometimes not, but always coming in and out, in and out, in and out. Sometimes he would come in later on with a tray of food, and sometimes he would come in and grab Ludwig's arm and drag him carefully up to his feet and lead him to the bathroom to tend to his wounds.

Sometimes the other two made brief appearances, poking their heads in just to check and chatting with the small one.

And, oh, how Ludwig _hated _them.

Every single one of them.

The Finn was annoying.

Always hovering over him, always talking even though he had to _know _just by the impatient looks Ludwig sent him that his voice was grating upon an already smoldering headache, always around, never giving him a moment's rest, never allowing him the personal space that he desired. Always talking.

Always around.

The Finn was annoying.

The Dane was insufferable.

Swaggering around here and there, speaking in that slang-laden accent of the Jutland, sometimes slipping into that quirky Southern dialect that was so mixed with mangled German that it was mostly its own language (one he was familiar and practiced in for the years he and Gilbert had spent in the northern part of the country (one of Gilbert's failed romances) before jumping over to Berlin), and hearing that loud, confident voice booming through the halls only made his headache blaze into an unbearable inferno. Add onto that loud mouth a grating leer and a ditzy, klutzy air, and Ludwig found that the Dane was somehow more goddamn annoying than the Finn, and much worse on his nerves.

The Dane was insufferable.

The Swede was surly and disagreeable.

Possibly the worst of them all, always lurking around in corners with a furrowed brow and sulking off in the shadows and staring out into space, hardly ever talking and always sending him narrow-eyed looks of annoyance, as though this whole thing were somehow _his _fault! Like _he _had been the one that had asked to be dragged out of that field in the middle of the night. Like _he _should be the one that should shoulder the responsibility of this fiasco. And Christ, Ludwig could barely stand to encounter him, and every time he did (sometimes the weird jerk popped into the room apparently just for the hell of it), he was stared at in a highly unnerving manner, and whenever the big brute _did _speak, it was in a curt, clipped voice that was exceedingly hard to understand and thick with unfriendliness.

The Swede was far beyond disagreeable.

He hated all of them.

The minutes until escape were dragging.

Constant pain. Constant shrill ringing in his ears. Constant lethargy and irritability.

The smallest things made his blood-pressure soar through the roof, and when he had been dragged into the bathroom one morning by the Finn, set down in the tub into warm water and left to relax for a bit, he had done just the opposite; the Finn had promptly turned to the mirror to shave, and every scrape of the razor against his skin seemed like nails down a chalkboard, and he couldn't help but wish that he had hurt them more when he had had the chance.

Irrational, sure, but how could he be expected to be in a good mood?

He would not forget that many of his companions had died at their hands.

Murderers. War criminals.

His head was _always _on fire.

The Swede never smiled.

Sunrises and sunsets.

The third and fourth days went a little easier.

A little.

The aggression and hatred began to dull down into a begrudging acceptance as his wounds started to heal up and the fire dulled down into an ache. His chest wasn't as heavy when he came around.

The double vision had gone.

When he woke up on a cloudy morning and realized that his shoulder had stopped aching, that stabbing pain no longer tormenting him, suddenly the people around him were considerably less annoying.

Easier to digest without being in constant agony. He felt a bit better. His mood improved, just a little.

They weren't really all _that _bad; it was just the war that had brought them to do such a horrible thing.

The Finn was alright.

Someone he could be at ease with, harmless and gentle and amicable, and at times he found himself looking forward to seeing the shortest of the group rounding the corner, bringing with him comfort and offering friendship. It was easier to appreciate now that it had been the Finn who had taken his back in the argument with the Swede, and it had been the Finn who had reassured him that everything would turn out alright. His voice was soft and easy on the ears, eyes calm and sweet, and now when he shaved as Ludwig washed his wounds, the sight and sound of it was just a normal occurrence, not a source of aggravation.

The Finn was alright.

The Dane was tolerable.

In doses. Very loud and very _fun_, too fun for someone such as himself, and yet being around the obnoxious Dane was comforting in its own way, if only because it was almost like having a piece of Gilbert at his side. But, just like with Gilbert, he was best taken in small amounts, and too much time around the Dane was like drinking too much alcohol; great at first, alright in the middle, and sick as a dog towards the end. And speaking of alcohol, it seemed to appear wherever the Dane was, which was also tolerable.

A great nerve-calmer, at any rate.

The Dane was tolerable.

The Swede was peculiar.

Walking with heavy steps and graceless strides, coming in every so often and merely nodding his head to himself when he saw that everything was going alright, he just stared off into the distance, always looking as though he were deep in thought and holding conversations with himself up in his head. A dreamer, maybe. Silent and strong, he spoke deeply and lowly on rare occasions, and even though he never made an effort to smile or even just to appear amicable, Ludwig considered that the Swede's mannerisms weren't as unfriendly and anti-social as he had first imagined. Maybe something else, something that bordered more on uncertainty and awkwardness. He couldn't really place it, not quite yet, not when his mind was still thick with the fog and confusion of concussion, his rationalizing gone and emotions still on a hair-trigger, but one thing was certain :

The Swede was definitely peculiar.

Time passed.

He could walk a bit better now that his vision was improving, but his balance was still shot, and it was only the good-grace of the Finn that kept him moving around, mostly up and down the hall and sometimes onto the porch, preventing the muscles in his legs from cramping. He was grateful for it.

Every passing day, his mood improved. The little things didn't bother him so much anymore.

The Finn scrounged around the house, and finally came back with clothes that fit him, and he could only suspect that they were the Dane's, who was the only one that matched his height and build. The Swede was too tall and big in the shoulders. The Finn was too short and slight. Lucky for him, he supposed; otherwise, he would have been running around in a tent of the Swede's extra garments.

He was glad.

New, finely-threaded clothes and a feeling of cleanliness only helped to improve his attitude.

Time passed a bit more quickly. Escape was always desirable, but not necessarily dire.

He could wait a bit.

The fifth and sixth days went smooth and easy.

His constant headache began to subside as his brain slowly recovered from the trauma of concussion. The shrill ringing in his ears faded. The bright lights vanished. The lethargy and irritability dissipated.

He felt more like himself. Calm and steady, not giving in to those swiftly shifting rages and urges to cry or just go berserk, and with every hour it seemed that his thoughts were clearer.

He was grateful for that, too.

The air was not so tense, and even though he regretted the loss of brave soldiers, he hadn't really _known _any of them. Not really. (An awful thought, but there it was.)

And on the seventh day, after the first real night's sleep, he woke up and realized that he could stand without wavering.

His balance had returned.

With it came clear-headedness, rationality, and a much more amicable feeling. Those around him were no longer obstacles as much as they were just _there_.

The Finn was friendly and pleasant.

A companion.

Timo was good-natured and well-mannered and always smiling, always quick to reassure and quick to offer explanations and friendly conversation, always hovering over and making sure that everything was healing up alright. Ludwig found that he was easy on not only the ears, but nerves and anxiety as well, and whenever Timo was near, he felt a little more at ease, no doubt strengthened by Timo's smooth fingers prodding over him every few hours and tending to his cuts and bruises.

Gilbert wasn't here to fuss over him anymore.

Timo could do it.

The Dane was charismatic and funny.

A charmer.

Magnus was witty and confident and the life of the party, a quality that he did not value in himself, but _God _did he miss it from Gilbert, and sometimes Magnus helped him about and showed him around when Timo was out or unavailable, and whenever he did, he was quick to lean in to Ludwig's side and test out jokes and puns. And when Ludwig shook his head in exasperation, the Dane seemed to consider that one a success and broke into a grand smile. And after that, Magnus was content to babble away, even though Ludwig did not offer input. It didn't matter; Magnus, with his easy smile and friendly hands, could be an effective cure to his gloominess when his mood took one of those sometimes random nose-dives.

Gilbert couldn't cheer him up anymore.

Magnus could do it.

And the Swede was just a gentle giant.

A sentinel.

When things were calm, at least.

Berwald was quiet and collected and cool-headed, usually standing off to the side with crossed arms and observing the surroundings with a sharp, critical eye, keeping a close watch on everything and appearing generally cautious. His gaze, whenever it fell on Ludwig, was fleeting, as though he were still trying to get used to _that _part of the scenery. Ludwig only stared back when he had to, and stayed silent. The looks and tones that his cloudy mind had interpreted as hostility and spitefulness were now recognized by a clear head as simple awkwardness.

Not unfriendliness. Just inelegance.

Berwald was awkward and graceless, but not as disagreeable as he had first thought. Maybe not such a bad guy. Weird, though. Kind of intimidating. Imposing. Always lost up in his head. Whenever the others spoke to him, he usually just nodded. When he decided to open his mouth and give a verbal response, his words were short, clipped, and very stiff, like his throat was threatening to clench up on him, making his already deep voice seem gruff and threatening.

But he didn't _seem_ malicious.

It had been a surprise to find that, the one time that it had been Berwald's turn to help him up out of the bed and down the hall, in a normal occasion the Swede's hands were strangely gentle for one so big and surly.

A farmer's hands.

Berwald was increasingly peculiar.

For now, Ludwig's priority was on regaining his independence rather than the oddities of his new companions.

Small steps. One thing at a time.

The first day that he had been able to wander around on his own had been such a wonderful relief that he had nearly (_nearly_—there was still a thing called pride) slung an arm around Timo's shoulder to drag him all over just to prove that he could.

Walking straight had never felt so good. Certainly not a thing to be taken for granted, not after all of that, and by God, he would never be blasé about simple things again.

With newfound prowess, he observed his surroundings for the first time with clarity. Pretty good scenery, from what he could see so far.

Night faded.

Day number eight. Still holding strong.

He pulled himself out of bed at the first light of dawn, before Timo had even come down to check on him. He felt a bit strange, sleeping in Timo's bed, but they had put him here, so, in his mind, it was really _his _room now, and he was longing to get out of _his _room and go exploring and figure out exactly where the fuck he was.

And so, with bare feet and only a mild headache, he did.

Creeping as silently as possible out of the room and down the hall, dressed in Magnus' clothes and smelling like strong cologne and Jäger because of them, he squinted his eyes in the dim, pale light and felt his way here and there as he tried his best not to awaken those around him.

He was only being nosy. Now was not the time to run. When the opportunity presented itself, it would be obvious. And right now, there was no adrenaline.

Just observation.

The house was cold, and quiet, the windows frosted as the morning sun struggled to break through the curtains, and with the chilly air and the smell of wood and snow came a sense of well-being, and being in the unusually-scented clothes of a stranger was somehow comforting.

Mellow and lethargic, he fell to a halt in the room that opened up at the end of the hall, a living room of sorts, and with thumbs looped in his pockets, he sat down on the tiny sofa that sat in the corner, fell over onto his side, and heaved a sigh of relief as he huddled alone in the darkness.

It wasn't so bad. Pretty little house. The air was nice. Country air. Not the congested smog of the city.

For now, he could handle this. Not so bad at all.

He closed his eyes.

The light coming from behind the frosty windows grew steadily brighter as his mind wandered, and he must have nodded off at some point in time, for when there was a noise at his side, he started upright, and realized that it was already bright inside.

The sun had risen.

And he also realized that someone else was in the room.

Wrenching his head to the left, he saw a figure looming over him, and bolted up in alarm, pulling his knees upward in a moment in insecurity.

Insecurity, it seemed, was an easy thing to feel when it was Berwald staring down at you.

An awkward moment, as he sat there in rather thin clothes in the chilly living room, arms wrapped around his legs as he stared up at Berwald, who stood there silently in the shadows, arms crossed over his chest and appearing to be wide awake, despite the clock above that clearly read seven.

They stared at each other, as he shifted this way and that in agitation and Berwald placed and replaced his footing in a suffocating moment of almost unspeakable awkwardness, and finally, Berwald cleared his throat.

He opened his mouth, and nothing came out.

More silence.

Ludwig, knowing that his security depended for now on the good graces and moods of Berwald (the apparently tentative leader of sorts of these men), forced himself to recover, and finally he managed to utter a weak, lame, "Well. You get up early, too."

Berwald stood still, and then shrugged a shoulder, before finally uttering, slowly and carefully, "No. Just makin' sure you hadn't run off."

It took his mind a second to translate and comprehend Berwald's thick accent, and when he finally did, he almost snorted.

Ah.

So, Berwald's wide awake appearance was only from adrenaline, no doubt at having poked his head in the bedroom only to find it empty.

Careful movements were needed now. If danger or conniving were sensed, then he would probably have a gun pressed into his head again. And three times was _not _a charm.

With equal cautiousness, Ludwig held out his hands non-threateningly and said, coolly, "Here I am."

Berwald nodded, once.

And then he just stood there for a moment, as though contemplating speaking, but in the end he only tucked his hands in his pockets and walked off, passing almost soundlessly through the front door and outside.

Ludwig stared at the closed door, and let his knees lower slowly down once he was alone.

Weirdo.

What a damn place he had fallen into.

Muttering under his breath and still squirming in agitation, he crossed his arms and collapsed back into the sofa, glowering at the door long after it was shut and trying to ignore the pang of hunger in his stomach.

The sun rose ever higher, the clock ticked on, and when it was nearly ten, the later risers decided to haul themselves out of bed and wander into sight.

Timo, rubbing sleep from his eyes with his fingers and stifling yawns, came out first, staggering down the hall and walking straight off into the kitchen without even seeing Ludwig sitting there on the sofa in the corner.

Magnus, tumbling down the stairs and hair sticking up, was soon to follow, following Timo's invisible trail.

Chatting from within. Ludwig sat still, agitation ever growing, knowing that he was not considered a part of the 'group' enough to really move about here on his own. He probably should have just stayed in bed.

The smell of coffee came out shortly after, and it was with perhaps irrational stubbornness that he sat completely still, arms crossed and staring at the floor and very close to raising his voice and shouting, 'Hey, I'm out here, you jerks'.

In the end, he said nothing. Coming off as needlessly aggressive might not have gone over well. He couldn't afford to go back to square one with these men.

Oh, God, he wanted to get the hell _out _of here. Sitting still was killing him.

As he twitched, restless, the front door creaked open, and in came Berwald, hair and shirt damp and cheeks red from exertion. Sparing Ludwig only a quick glance, he reached down and removed his muddy boots, leaving them on the mat so as not to trail dirt all over the floorboards, and took a silent step forward.

The smell of timber was evident.

Ludwig considered uttering a greeting. None came out.

Berwald eyed him, silently, shifting his weight on socked feet, and then, with a tilted head, disappeared into the kitchen without a word.

The agitation exploded into frustration as he was successfully ignored and passed by yet again. It was irrational, certainly, and no doubt a fit of ego, but considering the circumstances he didn't really feel like he should be taken so lightly and observed as an outsider to be left out on the sidelines.

_They _had been the ones that had twisted his arm to stay here with threats and allusions, and by God, they were going to lie in that bed that they had made.

He was not here by own choice. He owed them nothing. A 'hello' in the morning would have been nice.

At _least_.

His head hurt.

And just when he had finally pulled himself up to his feet, arms rigid at his sides and ready to cause a ruckus, Berwald came out, tall and broad-shouldered and wiping sweat from his brow, and every intention of hell-raising quickly died down into anxiety.

Certainly, another scuffle with Berwald was undesirable.

Berwald stared at him, standing there, and then took a step forward.

A mug was held out. Ludwig stared down at it, dumbly.

"Here," Berwald said, in a clipped, awkward tone, "You drink coffee?"

It took a second for his hands to react, lingering effects of the concussion upon his reflexes, and when he finally took the mug into his palms, the anxiety turned into a bit of guilt.

He was still overreacting to little things.

"Thanks," he finally uttered, and after a moment of stillness, Berwald inclined his head in acknowledgement, gaze fixed and alarmingly intense.

Ludwig met it, although he wasn't sure if he was really able to match it, despite a given effort.

Didn't this big oaf ever smile?

Maybe not.

"Yer head feel better?"

He could only nod, as Berwald stared him down.

"Can ya walk okay?"

He nodded again.

"Good. After breakfast, you can come help me outside."

An awkward silence (and where the hell was that breakfast at?), and, without really thinking about what he was doing, he had said, "I'd rather start on the car."

As soon as he had said it, he felt the twinge of alarm, because he was not in any position here to say what could and could not be done, and it wasn't wise to tell Berwald he was going to do something other than what had been directed.

Berwald only gave a deep, 'hm', and then shrugged a shoulder.

"Alright."

Maybe he looked a bit pale or his hand was shaking, or maybe it was just a hunch, but Berwald took a step back to observe, and then added, "There's some medicine in the kitchen, if your head's ringin'."

More than ringing.

"Thanks."

When Berwald ambled off again outside, taking his strange speech with him, Ludwig realized that, for all of him, Berwald was actually pretty easy to deal with.

That was a relief.

Before he could move, Timo was standing in the kitchen doorframe, and waved a hand in the air to get his attention.

"Ah," Timo began, somewhat airily, "you didn't have to just sit there, you know? You can...get _up_. And walk around. You know."

For a moment, he felt ridiculous.

Knowing that his cheeks were tinting, he muttered something under his breath and took a step forward, and when Timo pulled him into the kitchen and he was greeted loudly by Magnus, he felt all the more ridiculous.

Maybe a calming down was in order. While he was here, at least, he could try to take it easy. Overreaction to small details had always been a problem. Time to work on it a little, now that he was in place where war was not imminent.

When Magnus engaged him in conversation, he responded politely when it was needed, and tried to calm down. What was the point of riling himself up?

By the time the morning passed into afternoon and he had parted ways with Timo and Magnus to wander outdoors, he felt a little better.

It was pretty outside. White with snow, a clear blue sky, pines as far as the eye could see, mountains jutting up in every direction, and a pleasant smell of tall grass and wood.

A distance thunking in the distance was no doubt Berwald cutting wood into manageable pieces.

Taking heart in a little time to explore, Ludwig was quick to look over either shoulder, more of habit than anything else, and when he was sure that Timo and Magnus were out of sight inside and that Berwald was far away and distracted, he stepped off down from the porch and into the snow.

A walk outside would do his head good.

As he wandered, it struck him how truly isolated this place really was. No other homes were even visible from where they were, no neighbors, and indeed, the only proof that they were even _there _at all were mere plumes of chimney smoke here and there on the horizon. No sounds of people.

Just quiet.

He was in the middle of nowhere. Not an ideal circumstance for fleeing, but that would just have to be worked around. He would have to make sure, one way or another, that the car was full of gas before he slunk away. This place was not inescapable; he would just have to be careful of his actions and wording in the days leading up to it.

He passed the car by, having little interest in tinkering with it right now. He wanted to get his bearings first.

Outside the house, little chairs and benches and tables stood out against the snow, apparently there for decoration more than usefulness. Maybe making picnic tables was really all there was to do out here.

How...quaint.

Gilbert would keel over dead out here.

For a moment, that thought almost made him smile.

It quickly fell.

Gilbert.

It was better not to think of Gilbert, who was probably still unaware that anything strange had occurred, and was drinking with his comrades in France and boasting that his little brother was turning out just _like _him.

Oh. Gilbert would never forgive him. It would be for the best when he was labeled as dead in the train wreckage and Gilbert got the news either by ear or letter, and it hurt a bit less to know that Gilbert would burst into tears of despair thinking he was dead rather than spit on the ground because he had defected.

He was selfish.

Gilbert would get over it, in time. And maybe it would even help Gilbert, somehow, by pulling back his recklessness because he had seen first-hand that they were not, after all, invincible and endlessly lucky.

The death of one brother could be the salvation of the other.

It was better to imagine that some kind of good could come from this for Gilbert.

No; he _needed_ to imagine that, because otherwise _he _would probably be the one to burst into tears. Who had ever known it would come to this? He had enjoyed the being the pride and joy of Gilbert's life, not the dirty, nameless secret.

That's what he would be if he ever showed his face again.

An out of place object caught his eye and drew him from his mind. Looking up, he found himself a fair walk from the house above, close to the forest's edge and in a low, shadowed area mostly hidden from sight.

But it wasn't empty here. A little shed stood out in the back, hidden behind an outcrop of trees and blanketed in snow, tucked carefully back and out of sight. And even though he knew that he really _shouldn't_, he was too nosy for his own good, and seeing what was inside of it was absolutely necessary.

He masked his curiosity with the excuse that, perhaps, something useful was inside with which he could to start working on the car. In case he was caught.

Creeping through the snow and pushing aside low-hanging pine branches, he snuck forward, and when he approached, the pristine smell of snow was sharpened with something acrid; motor-oil, maybe.

He reached out.

When he pushed the wooden door, the creaking far too loud in the silent forest, he realized immediately that he had gone from simple nosiness more into the 'curiosity killed the cat' territory.

The shed was filled with guns. The smell hadn't been motor-oil.

Gunpowder.

His eyes, adjusting to the darkness within, had time to take in racks upon the wall, built skillfully and polished, and each of them held rifles upon rifles, and in the corner sat bags, probably full of ammunition, another rack on the other side held handguns, gleaming in the dim light, and he knew now that he should _not _have been in here—

A hand fell upon his shoulder.

Jumping in alarm and whipping around so quickly that he nearly fell backwards, he was already mentally preparing what words of defense he would sputter, but when his gaze focused, he realized that that would not be necessary.

It was just Timo. Not Berwald.

Smiling, Timo looked about, and finally caught his eye.

Ludwig did not miss the unease.

"I see you discovered our stash!"

Knowing that Timo had been trailing him, and knowing that it was because, despite his friendliness, Timo did not _trust_ him, Ludwig could only play it honestly and make himself as loose and easy as possible.

"Just lookin' around," he said, quickly, and Timo shifted his weight.

"You should have said so," he responded, carefully. "I would have shown you around."

A moment of silence.

Timo had every right to be nervous.

A Wehrmacht, who had already jumped into violent altercations with them, standing here in such an isolated spot with too many guns to count and already having professed an extreme desire to get away at any cost?

Not a good situation.

Trying to wave it off, Ludwig gave a weak laugh, and said, "Some collection! You guys are really, ah, _prepared_, huh?"

Finally, seeing his anxious, shuffling feet, Timo's smile became a real one.

"Yeah. Just in case. You never know!"

Apparently feeling that there wasn't really a threat after all, Timo pushed gently past him and walked inside.

"Come here, you wanna look at them?"

"Sure."

Timo, propping the door open to let in the light, pointed out one on the left and said, "That's what we use most of the time, the Krags. Magnus likes those more than anything else. They're pretty easy to find all over. A lot of them get smuggled in from Norway."

As he nodded his head and let Timo blabber away, he couldn't help but be surprised that these idiots really had so many goddamn guns.

Their fiasco earlier had not prepared him for a collection of this size. And certainly not so much ammunition. How often did they go out? The churning of his stomach was ruining the thrill of seeing the guns. Ah, Timo, that lyin' little jerk. Hadn't he said it 'wouldn't be so bad'? These guns painted a different picture of what life was really like amongst rebels.

"We don't really use these much."

Raising his head, he saw that Timo was poking over the handguns, contemplatively.

"We try not to get so close that we actually need them."

Well, _that _was comforting.

"How long have you been doing this?"

Timo spared him a glance, and after a moment of hesitation, he said, "About a year for me, now. Haven't been home in a while."

There was a passing of darkness across Timo's face, but it fled as quickly as it had come, and Timo swiftly moved on with a wave of his hand, prattling on.

Ludwig tried to pay attention, but found his mind wandering. He might nick a few rifles when he finally made his escape, now that he knew where they were.

"Do you like the sub-machines?"

Absently, he shook his head.

As Timo smiled away, Ludwig found himself more attracted to the longer rifles, sitting up high on the wall above them. Models that he was more comfortable with, at any rate, and, with an observing eye, he said, thoughtfully, "I like _those_. That's good steel. Swedish, huh?"

"Yup," Timo answered. "Mausers. Good guns."

Timo moved about at his side, and then stopped short in front of a different rack.

"This is Berwald's favorite," he said easily, as he patted a rifle candidly, and when Ludwig turned to look at it, he wasn't really all that surprised at the large scope and the careful making. A Gewehr.

Of course slow, steady Berwald would favor the rifle of a sniper rather than the quick-fire guns that Magnus liked. A sentiment he could share in.

"You'd like this one too," Timo added. "It's got a German scope. AJACK."

Ludwig smiled, and placed a hand on his hip. Maybe they weren't so clueless, after all.

"You've got all kinds of things."

Timo burst into a great, sunny smile then, and moved on to another rack.

"This is all my stuff," he said, quite proudly, and Ludwig knew quickly why.

They were all Soviet guns. No doubt Timo's little trophy section.

"This is _my _favorite," Timo said, as he took one from the wall, "PPD!"

Ludwig watched as he looked it over with a wide smile and bright eyes, and it was somehow strange to see tiny Timo holding a Soviet sub-machine gun within surprisingly sure hands and to know that the easy-going Finn had probably killed the gun's previous owner.

A little surreal, actually. That made the realization come a little faster.

This was an impressive collection, certainly. And his realization, coming with a twinge of unease, was that maybe these blithering idiots were more dangerous than they had first appeared, and maybe he was inside the lion's den rather than the clown car.

An unnerving thought.

Now, as Timo smiled over at him and chatted away, he sharpened his ears and eyes and paid _attention_, because cute little Timo was suddenly nothing to be played around with, and knowing that the one he had felt the least threatened by could very well take out a gun and shoot him at any point was a very harsh wake-up call.

"...don't you?"

He started, and turned to Timo with a burst of adrenaline.

"What was that?" he was quick to respond, and Timo, his pale hand lying down atop one of the rifles, sent Ludwig a look of amusement.

"I said, you know how to use all of these, don't you? I mean, I'm sure you do!"

He could only nod, keeping his eyes firmly upon Timo's hand.

...he would have to watch his step around here.

Friendly Timo was a baby-faced killer. Charming Magnus was a stone-cold executioner. And big, gentle-handed Berwald was a silent assassin.

He would take them more seriously, from now on.

Having been shown everything inside the shed, Timo led him out, and he followed without question, keeping alert and aware.

Timo saw his tense shoulders and clumsy steps, and smiled over at him. "So," he began, airily, "How are you feeling here so far? I bet you're pretty homesick, huh?"

A moment's pause, and then he said, simply, "Not really."

Timo only smiled.

"That's just because it's still a new place. Give it time. It'll hit you soon."

Ludwig furrowed his brow and pursed his lips, but stayed wisely silent, and finally shrugged a shoulder.

Well, he wouldn't know, after all. He had never been away from home. Maybe it was still the rush of adventure keeping him from feeling the gnawing of homesickness. Or maybe it was because he was trying so damn hard not to think about it.

"Well," he finally muttered, "I guess it's not so bad here."

Timo tucked his hands in his pockets.

"It's not! I really think you'll like it out here, if you give it a chance." Sending him a cool look, Timo added, "It's really hard to start out on your own in a new place. I'd never have made it here if it hadn't been for Berwald. Can't go it alone, you know."

Ludwig, feeling another rush of anxiety, only smiled.

Ah, Timo. How had he known what he had been thinking?

"Besides," Timo chirped, "who wants to be alone? I'd rather be around people than out somewhere by myself where I didn't know anybody."

He realized that Timo, having been unnerved at first by seeing him around the guns, was trying to keep him very thoroughly engaged and on their side. Maybe it was working. A little.

"Do you speak Swedish?"

Ludwig shook his head.

The house was in sight.

Berwald was up above, carrying a stack of firewood towards the porch.

Quaint.

"Man!" Timo said, breezily, "It's a good thing we picked you up after all! Kinda hard to find a place to live in a country whose language you don't even speak, don't you think?"

If Berwald hadn't been in sight, Ludwig might have said, 'Why don't you just rub it in a little more, you son of a bitch?'

Instead, he only gave a strained, "Ha."

Timo's words were a considerable blow to his confidence, as they had no doubt intended to be. It was unfortunate that everything Timo said was true. But, God, the thought of _having _to stay here and to rely upon them was the worst thing imaginable. To be dependent on strangers.

The afternoon dragged on. Despite the agitation, his mood wasn't bad.

Lunch came and went, and when the sun was at its highest point, he observed an interesting ritual that occurred in the midst of this crushing, monotonous normalcy.

They all gathered together late in the afternoon to clean and oil the other guns that they kept within the house.

He certainly admired their dedication, but on the other hand, he couldn't help but wonder if such an act was really necessary. They didn't seem to put themselves in danger so frequently that the guns needed daily maintenance.

Maybe this was their version of bonding time.

They sat there in the living room, Magnus cross-legged on the floor and Berwald hunched over the coffee table, and Timo sat off in the hall, where he was still within sight of the others. Each of them had their own pile of guns, which they diligently took apart and cleaned and pieced back together.

Ludwig leaned back against the wall, in between Magnus and Timo, and felt very thoroughly out of place as they worked.

They chatted lowly amongst themselves in whatever language they used. Swedish or Danish; he couldn't really tell. They were pretty much the same anyway, and it was a little frustrating to grasp a few words here and there but not be able to put them together into coherent sentences, and his knowledge of the South Jutland dialect was of absolutely no help.

He stayed still and silent, and only watched.

Every so often, Magnus would say something loudly and burst into laughter, and then reach out and gently punch Ludwig's leg, as he cried in German, "Right?"

Ludwig only stared down at him with a furrowed brow of annoyance. Like he had understood him at all. Big dummy. Berwald looked up in equal annoyance in these instances, and it was clear that he did not like his work interrupted. Another sentiment Ludwig could share.

They took surprising care in their thoroughness, and as the hours ticked by, Ludwig's patience began to wane. Being a spectator was not quite as enthralling as being a participant, at least not in this instance, and he was glad when Berwald finished first and pulled himself up to his feet, gathering up his rifles and walking carefully past the others to put them away in the cabinet that stood against the wall.

As he passed, Berwald caught his eye, and after a hesitation, said, mostly to himself, "Guess you'll need one, too."

A statement not really meant to be answered, but he did anyway.

"I'll take one of those Gewehr."

Down below, Magnus snorted, and muttered, casually, "Sniper? Ha. Looks like we got another Berwald!"

Berwald's eyes narrowed, and Ludwig could only wonder if that was meant as an insult rather than a compliment. Timo's eye-roll was an indicator of the former, and he shifted his weight awkwardly, caught in between them and feeling more out of place than ever.

Once the rest of the guns were safely away, Timo grabbed a fistful of Magnus' shirt, and pulled him to his feet, dragging him quickly towards the kitchen. As they went by, Magnus sent him a cheeky look, and called back, "You look really good in my clothes!"

Berwald's hands twitched a bit, and Ludwig could only say, politely, "They're nice."

They disappeared from sight, and Ludwig was left alone with Berwald.

And everything was quiet.

He glanced over at silent Berwald, standing there, and cleared his throat a bit.

"So," he finally asked, when Berwald's fixed gaze became a little too much, "What do you guys do here? Is this like your...hideout? Or do you really live here? Do you work in town?"

A weak attempt at conversation. Better than this suffocating silence.

Berwald stared at him for a second, and then dropped his shoulders, a little less intense now that Magnus was no longer in sight.

"Well," he began, slowly, "Guess we live here now. Good place. We do a little bit here 'n there. Magnus messes with cars around town sometimes. Mostly we make tables, chairs, things like that. Timo and Magnus go down to the cities to sell 'em."

For a second, Ludwig almost laughed. Until he realized that Berwald was completely serious.

Well. He _had _wanted something normal. But damn, was this ever.

"You know how to woodwork?"

He shook his head.

Berwald observed him, and then said, simply, "You'll learn."

The near absurdity of it all forced him to smile, and he said, "Well, I'll try!"

Even if he didn't really plan on it.

Berwald nodded, and turned his eyes to the window.

"How's the car going?"

"Oh. I didn't get around to it. I was...distracted."

"Oh."

A loud bark of laughter from the kitchen drew Berwald's attention, and as Timo and Magnus giggled to each other, the frown on his face was apparent. When it came to Magnus, perhaps, Berwald wasn't quite as easy to deal with as first imagined.

Clashing egos and personalities could be a problem here.

Finally, Berwald heaved a sigh and stalked off up the stairs, leaving Ludwig to linger down below.

Yet again.

Alone, he fell back onto the sofa, flipping onto his side in a mimic of the morning, and drifted off, considering them.

He observed new things about them every day.

Timo was not always gentle and friendly, and it had been a surprise to learn that he actually had a rather short and rather nasty temper and that (according to Magnus) a pretty mean punch. And (according to Magnus) when he went out against the Soviets, he did so without fear and with leadership, always mindful of those with him and quick to defend them if it came to the wire.

Magnus always seemed to be striving to be center of attention, all day, every day. It didn't seem to matter to whom, or whether good or bad; he seemed to be equally pleased at cracking a bad joke to Timo as he was puffing out his chest and antagonizing Berwald. And while Magnus had nothing but praise for Timo, the feelings didn't seem to extend to Berwald, and when Magnus was in the same room with him, the charming air of a loafer turned into a somewhat intimidating belligerence and a confidence that bordered on over-compensation. Magnus tried too hard to appear more capable and dominant than Berwald, although for what purposes Ludwig had yet to uncover.

Berwald was always _quiet_. He communicated with looks and actions. When he did speak, his words were clumsy and stiff and awkward, like he had never really _spoken _to anyone before. Like he had never been around people. Maybe he had grown up in a little place like this where neighbors were few and far between. Or maybe Swedes were just like that.

Strange.

It was a little imposing at times, and certainly unnerving, and yet for all the Swede's brutish movements and thick speech and awkward air, it was pretty easy for Ludwig to remind himself that there didn't really seem to be any harm in him. He usually just stood there, staring. Big and harmless. At least to those he called friends, at any rate. Not to be played around with if you were on his bad side. A _very_ bad side, because even though he sent Magnus looks that could have killed a dog, he never lashed out physically.

He was socially incompetent, made all the more obvious by being with Timo and Magnus, so confident and friendly and loud, and Ludwig couldn't help but feel a little sympathy towards him, because he knew what it felt like to be the quiet, awkward one around a bunch of comedians and charmers.

Gilbert had overshadowed him. Berwald was overshadowed by the others. He could understand that.

He learned new things about them every day.

But they were still strangers.

Timo and Magnus were funny, but they didn't really confide in him. Berwald spoke to him, but never smiled.

This was a household of shaky alliances at best. These men were held together by circumstance and necessity, not friendship.

Well, he fit right in, then, didn't he?

The rest of the night passed uneventfully, and the next morning came as cool and calm as the last.

Once again, he found himself awake before everyone else.

This time, Berwald must not have found him as much of a flight risk, for the clock ticked on by, and no one ever came out.

He made himself at home in the kitchen, learning where things were at and what was available. Not because he was planning on staying, or anything. Just to know.

...well, Timo had offered a valid point. It would be hard to set off on his own out here. Granted, he really hadn't planned this all too well. It had really been jump, tuck, and roll, and anything after had been meant to be winged, at best.

A leap before you look kinda thing.

He made coffee and ransacked the cabinets, and was relieved to at least find basic commodities. He had been a little worried. But at least they had flour and eggs. And when he took it upon himself to make breakfast, it was certainly _not _a peace-offering because he planned on staying. It was just a nice thing to do for those who had refrained from shooting him, and who had offered him a place to stay. Maybe they'd twisted his arm about it, sure, but hey—he wasn't in Norway.

And when he knocked on each of their doors and all but forced them out of their beds at seven o'clock sharp, it _wasn't_ because he was trying to insert himself into place and create a sense of belonging and authority because he was planning on staying.

It was just...

Well.

If he had been bested by them thrice, then they could at least wake up at an appropriate hour and make him feel a little better for it. Being taken down by three slow-moving, carefree, blithe wanderers was not good on his ego.

Timo and Berwald came down rather obediently. Magnus did not, and it had taken three separate rounds of increasingly persistent door-knocking to finally drag him onto his feet, and the trip down the stairs nearly killed him for his clumsy steps.

When they all sat there at the table, he tried to use their sleepiness to his advantage and assert himself a little.

But not because he was planning on staying.

"Is it alright for me to make breakfast? I was up."

Bleary-eyed and yawning, Timo hung above his coffee and rasped, sleepily, "Ah, that was nice of you! You sure do get up _early_, though."

Berwald, staring with lidded eyes down at his plate, nodded his head in agreement as he tapped absently away with his fork.

Magnus rubbed at his eyes and muttered, "Sure do."

Satisfied, Ludwig leaned back into his seat, and watched them in their most vulnerable moments, as they struggled against sleep, quiet and subdued, and he was glad for it. It made him feel a bit less insecure.

Seeing Berwald's fork slip from his fingers and onto the floor and him hitting his head on the table as he went to retrieve it was well worth it.

It was interesting, in a way, seeing them come around into consciousness and watching their faces fall into place. To get to know them a little.

Luckily, Magnus and Berwald seemed to keep their rivalry under the table, so to speak, at meal times. He was grateful for that; who wanted to eat with an argument next to their ear?

Of course, as soon as they left the kitchen, they were quick to part ways, and this time Ludwig took it upon himself to trail behind Magnus and find out exactly what _he _did all day (but not because he was staying).

Most of Magnus' time was spent listening to the radio in his room, tuning channels in and out and trying to catch glimpses of friendly voices, sometimes raising the speaker to his mouth and muttering away in Danish. The serious look upon his face in those moments was rather unpleasant, a mixture of homesickness and sadness, and, when no one ever answered, Ludwig was glad when he left the radio alone to go wander into town.

He didn't follow. Timo did that.

Without the two who spoke to him the most, he found himself alone with Berwald.

Feeling uncomfortable alone in the house, the only thing there really was to do was just to track him down. Which wasn't hard. Berwald could usually be found outside, working on this and that or sometimes lying back atop one of the tables and staring up at the sky.

Sure enough, as soon as Ludwig opened the door, there he was, but this time he was inspecting the car, and it was a burst of adrenaline that led Ludwig down the stairs and towards him, saying, loudly, "I was just about to work on that."

Shit.

He hadn't really meant to slack on it. Not that he was planning on staying. It was just that Berwald had said, after all, that he couldn't stay for free, and so far he hadn't really made any effort to be useful.

_Not_ that he was planning on staying.

Looking up at his voice, Berwald met his gaze, and shrugged a shoulder.

Trudging through the muddy snow, he came to a halt before the car, and said, quickly, "I'll need some tools."

Berwald nodded, and wandered off.

In Berwald's absence, he took a second to inspect the damage he had inflicted upon the hapless vehicle, and couldn't help but regret.

Pretty car. What a shame.

Well, nothing that couldn't be fixed, and he was lucky that a busted car was the worst that had come out of all of that. The way Magnus tackled. Similar to getting hit by a train. And he had been there, too.

A thud at his side made him turn his head, to see that Berwald had tossed a bag of tools upon the ground.

A silence, and when it became apparent that Berwald had no intention of speaking, he placed a hand on his hip and said, "That'll work."

He set about it, taking a blunt hammer to the dents in the door first, trying to beat it back into place so that it could at least close properly.

Berwald stood off and watched, straightening his coat down with wandering hands.

Finally, as awkward minutes ticked by and Ludwig held the hammer in his teeth and tried to screw hinges back in place, Berwald asked, "Need help?"

He spared a glance, and snorted.

"Sure," he grumbled as best he could, and Berwald came forward, looking a bit out of place as he tried to lend a helping hand.

He wasn't very useful in a mechanical sense, but...

Despite his oddities, Ludwig didn't really mind the times he found himself in the company of Berwald, if only for the silence.

Sometimes, Timo and Magnus just talked too damn much.

And it went every bit as silently as he had expected, and Berwald did everything he was asked to do without adding small talk. His kind of friend. (Not that he was planning on staying and making friends.)

Hours and a fixed muffler later, Timo finally came wandering up the drive, a staggering Magnus in tow.

Berwald send them a look of agitation, and quickly averted his gaze, a strange look upon his face as he returned his attention to rubbing oil from his hands as they stood there in a short break.

Timo looked flustered and irritated, and it was obvious, even from where he stood, that Magnus was intoxicated.

Ah. Maybe he should have gone into town after all.

Trudging up towards the house, a fist clenched in Magnus' coat and muttering under his breath, Timo spared only a brief glance at Berwald to gripe something aloud that might have been an insincere apology. Berwald only stared off into space, wringing the rag within his hands mindlessly.

Ludwig watched their silent looks and communications with the purpose of identifying and remembering them and attempting to calculate what set each of them off.

But _not_ because he was planning on staying. Friends close, enemies closer, etc.

Was Berwald angry because Magnus was drunk or because Magnus was back? Was Timo agitated because he was keeping Magnus upright or because he knew Berwald would be angry? Was Magnus drunk because he was a partier or because he was heartsick?

Small details, no matter how insignificant they could seem, were important. It was wise to have a handle on these men, even if he was only staying a short while.

As Timo led wavering Magnus up the short steps, Berwald raised his voice and barked what was very clearly a command, and even though he couldn't understand the words, the tone surprised him a bit. It surprised him too the nasty look that Timo sent him over his shoulder.

Somehow, he had expected these men to get along just a little better.

Taking the cloth from Berwald when it was offered, he leaned back against the car, scrubbing his hands free of clinging motor-oil and watching with a lifted brow of interest as Berwald turned on his heel and stalked off towards a weathered tree stump, taking up the axe to begin quite furiously chopping more firewood.

Even though the porch was full of it. And it cluttered all sides of the house. And there was a stack down at the tree-line, too.

Maybe there was so much firewood because there were so many times that Berwald needed to get some stress off his shoulders, and maybe out in the middle of nowhere this was really the only way to do it.

The thud of the axe against the logs echoed in the empty forests.

Ludwig tilted his head, and logged this information away.

Not too long after, Timo came out alone, and, with only a quick glance at Ludwig, he stomped down the hill to where Berwald stood. When an argument broke out, Ludwig only leered down at them from above and logged that away too.

Timo stomped his foot in the snow, looking more like a viper than the lamb he usually played.

Ludwig had no idea what the fuck was going on with these crazy sons of bitches, but it sure was interesting to watch.

Kinda like bein' at the movies.

The argument quickly ended when Berwald's face fell a bit, and then his shoulders, and then the axe fell too, and Timo grabbed it up and took over the work.

Maybe everyone used wood-chopping as anger management.

Berwald backed off, conceding the fight to tiny Timo.

Strange.

He jumped a bit in alarm when Timo suddenly cried, "Hey, Ludwig!"

Startled, he whipped his head and looked down, ready to flee. There was _no_ way he was getting dragged into the middle of domestic disputes.

Timo only looked up at him, axe in hand, and inclined his head to the pile of timber.

"Gimme a hand?"

He didn't really care to, but he did anyway, to keep in good standing.

But not because he was staying.

As soon as he hit the bottom of the hill, coming to Timo's side, he was immediately put to work, and there was no point in denying that he did _not _like holding the wood still as Timo steadied the axe, only to snatch his hands back at the last second to avoid losing them.

Well.

Could be worse.

Better to hold firewood in a quiet little place than to hold a rifle in a frightened town.

Berwald stood back, arms crossed and only observing, a very placid look upon his face. Somehow, big Berwald had been successfully bullied by little Timo. Another useful note for future reference.

Ten minutes or so passed before Timo finally dropped the axe onto the ground, reaching up to rub a bicep as he said, "Arm's tired. Switch off?"

"Sure," he supplied, easily.

Chopping firewood would certainly be an experience to write home about.

Oh.

A pang.

No writing home for him.

Ignoring the sudden ache, he took the axe from Timo and raised it up, trying to imitate what he had seen.

Berwald muttered from behind, "Don't hold it so high."

He obeyed. Even though he fell off to the side the first two times, it was pretty easy to get a hang of. He felt a bit useful. Not that he was staying.

As they worked, the mood improved a bit, and any of the dirty looks and harsh words of earlier were quite clearly forgotten.

Timo's smile was bright, and Berwald's brow was high.

After a while, he found that he liked the work. The burn in his arms was pleasant. Physical exertion had always been a fondness, and this was more than a good workout, especially after being bed-ridden. Sweat never killed anyone.

As Timo carried over more bundles of wood to be chopped, Ludwig raised his eyes up, and saw that Berwald had wandered off, and was standing up on the hill next to the house, staring off into space and tapping his foot absently.

A loner.

Timo followed his gaze, and snorted.

"You'll have to get used to him."

As he raised the axe back above his head, Ludwig grunted, "I gotta get used to you, too."

"Yeah," Timo threw back, breezily, "But I'm easier on the eyes, right?"

He scoffed, and brought the axe down.

"Whatever you say."

He went at it as long as he could, which couldn't have been half an hour. His arms hurt too much to carry on, and, wiping his brow, he called it quits as Timo knelt down to gather up the last of the readied timber.

Even as the sun hung low over the mountains, Berwald still just stood there up above, and hadn't really moved.

"He doesn't say much, does he?" he finally asked, and Timo looked up at him, and shrugged a shoulder.

"Not really! I guess he just doesn't have anything to _say_. I think he just... I don't know, he's just kinda weird. Who could ever know what he's thinking? I still can't figure him out."

He almost smiled then, and, as he averted his gaze from Timo back up to Berwald, standing alone upon the hill, he repeated something that Gilbert had told him years ago, when his friends had teased him for being so awkward and silent.

"Quiet men have the most on their minds."

Actually, Gilbert's version had been more akin to, 'the quiet ones are the really fuckin' sneaky ones, so tell 'em to watch out and not mess with ya or else'.

His remake sounded a little better.

Timo snorted, and pulled himself to his feet, straightening up as he dusted his hands on his pants and turned a coy eye to Ludwig.

"Or nothing at all," he offered, and Ludwig finally smiled, tucking his hands in his pockets.

...yeah, or that.

"You'd know," Timo added, still watching him with that easy, friendly gaze, "Wouldn't you? You don't talk a lot either. So serious. You remind me a lot of _him_. Still waters run deep, right?"

He nodded.

Alright, Timo's version had bested his. Same difference.

"I'm going inside," Timo finally said, after a few minutes of uneventful silence. "Come in before it gets too late. We'll have to wash Magnus' clothes before he pitches a fit that you got sap on 'em."

"Sure."

With that, Timo sent him a nod of acknowledgement and retreated inside as the sun sank ever lower.

He stayed out, wandering around below, enjoying the silence and the breeze.

Berwald just stared out into the mountains above, his thumbs looped in his belt, until the sun set. Ludwig waited patiently down below, exploring here and there. He didn't mind the silence.

And that night, when the clothes were clean and when the wood was put away, when the sky was clear and the moon was high and he felt well-rested and like himself again, when the time was right and everyone was asleep and the cars were unguarded, he didn't even really think to grab up the keys from the hook near the door and jump inside a vehicle and make his great escape.

The urge to run had, truthfully, all but vanished. It wasn't really _so _bad here. And maybe it was easier, in the end, to rely upon these men rather than to set out on his own in strange lands. Loneliness was an option. Not a necessity. These men already knew who he was and where he had come from. They didn't really seem to care, and maybe to them it was even a gift.

He liked not being looked at as something to fear.

That small kindness kept him here.

Better to stay safe within the walls built by these masters of disguise than to go out into a different town and shoot himself in the foot by knowing neither the language nor the cultural skills needed to pass himself off as a civilian.

Too risky outside.

Maybe Berwald's spur-of-the-moment decision had been a blessing in disguise for him.

He didn't run.

Sometimes it was better to go downstream.


	7. Four Strong Winds

**Chapter 7**

**Four Strong Winds**

What a week.

He'd never been a big fan of drama, and so he was glad that everything had settled down into a pace that he was more comfortable with, and without the bursts of alarm and anxiety that had laden the first few days.

It was all for the best that Ludwig, despite his initial determination to escape them no matter what ruthless actions needed to be taken, had finally seemed to settle down a bit. At least by all outward appearances. It was probably just the calm before the storm.

In all honesty, even if Ludwig did make a run for it, he wasn't really planning on extending his hand to stop it. Lukas was safe, so there was no longer any need for exchange. Ludwig wouldn't go to Norway, so there was no worry about their role in the sabotage being brought to the military.

If he woke up one morning and Ludwig was gone, he sure wasn't gonna cry about it. Let Ludwig go, if he really wanted to. They had been fine before him, and they'd be fine after him.

For now, Ludwig seemed content to stay put, and was taking things in pretty good stride. He was certainly more comfortable around them, that was for sure, and Berwald had seen him having a casual drink with Magnus on at least two separate occasions. Timo seemed to have taken a liking to him.

Son of a bitch needed to learn to sleep in, though.

"I'm comin'," was the only thing he managed to grunt, barely conscious and barely aware of his own actions, as Ludwig's fist came down on his door in a relentless wakeup call not long after the sun had risen.

Tumbling out of bed in an undignified manner that he was glad nobody was around to see, he grabbed up his new glasses from the end-table, and trudged wearily to the door.

When he pulled it open, Ludwig stood on the other side, bright and alert and wide-awake.

Casting a cool, pale gaze over Berwald's disheveled and sleep-struck appearance, Ludwig finally arched a brow, straightened his back, and drawled in a very hardnosed way, "Rise and shine." And then he turned on his heel and carried on down the hall like a fuckin' drill sergeant, and started to bang on Magnus' door.

A muffled moan of, "Go _away_!" only made Ludwig bang all the harder.

Berwald, gliding towards the staircase like a phantom, rubbed the sleep from his eyes and wondered, as he took careful steps down, if Ludwig's soldierly skills were really worth it.

He was kind of a pain in the ass.

As he seated himself dutifully at the table, Timo already in place and covering yawns with his hands, the smell of coffee and the warmth that the stove had created in the room was rather comforting, and the irritation of being shaken out of bed far too early quickly faded.

Timo, hair messy and pale and heavy-eyed, sent him a smile.

"Mornin'."

He nodded his head, throat too scratchy to really speak, and contented himself with staring at the sleepy Finn until he'd had his fill.

As expected, Timo started shifting again under his gaze, and leapt far too eagerly upon the opportunity to look away when Ludwig came marching down the stairs, a griping Magnus in tow—literally. Ludwig's hand was entangled in the folds of Magnus' shirt, and he was dragging him quite mercilessly away from the comfort of bed.

An interesting scene.

Ludwig obviously found himself the most comfortable around Magnus, even more than with Timo.

It irritated Berwald that Magnus seemed to have an ability to charm just about _anyone_.

Timo's smile brightened and widened when Magnus was sitting at the table, and any attention that he had been giving Berwald was easily distracted. Magnus only smiled, blearily, eyeing Timo with a look that was far too warm and that lingered far too long.

The irritated intensified.

Ludwig, keeping his elbow off the table politely, didn't say a word, and a side-effect of Berwald's irritation made him realize that he really didn't like Ludwig wearing Magnus' clothes, because it was kind of like looking at _two _Magnuses, and good God almighty, he'd rather go outside and burrow under the snow and _die _than to be faced with _that _possibility.

He'd have to either trim down his own clothes or procure new ones. Way too unnerving, to have Ludwig pass by and to only smell Magnus.

When Timo and Magnus continued to stare at each other, and it became apparent that they were content to stay that way, Berwald found it necessary to interrupt them.

"Say, Ludwig," he began, voice rough from sleep, "Why don't ya go with Magnus today and give him a hand around town?"

A moment of silence, and then Timo (undermining him yet again) said, "Actually, I was planning on going out today, so... We can all go!"

Berwald furrowed his brow, but held his tongue. Damn.

Finally, Ludwig spoke up, after a few minutes of awkward silence and forks scraping plates, and said, "I think I'll just stay here and work on the car some more." Perhaps sensing that there was some tension between Magnus and Berwald and maybe thinking that he was _helping_, he added, "Berwald can give me a hand."

Berwald opened his mouth, and nothing came out. Timo was beaming now, and took advantage of his clenched throat.

"That sounds good to me!"

"Me too," Magnus interjected.

Berwald closed his mouth, cast Ludwig a quick look, and then turned his eyes back to his food with resignation.

No point in being mad at Ludwig. Ludwig didn't understand. Just another scratch he could make on the huge wall of his own ineloquence.

Nobody to blame but himself.

It was with a furrowed brow and a sense of dejection that he watched Timo and Magnus shovel their food down their throats as quickly as they could without choking, and then leap to their feet and all but race each other to see who could grab their coat first.

The slam of the door.

Without really realizing it, his fork lowered until it was just pressing into the plate, his head hanging a bit and appetite suddenly gone.

He barely noticed Ludwig sitting across from him, watching him with an observant eye as he stirred his coffee.

His mind was occupied elsewhere.

Just imagining them together, walking together down towards the town and smiling away, happy to chatter to each other and bump each others' shoulders in friendly camaraderie...

A rustle off to the side, and he glanced up half-heartedly, to see that Ludwig had gathered up the empty plates and set them in a stack on the counter. When everything fell silent and Ludwig was occupied with washing the dishes, he lowered his eyes again and fell back into his head.

Stupid.

He should have been planning their next move and looking into what was happening across the borders. Not worrying about what was happening between Magnus and Timo.

It was hard to reconcile that someone he liked as much as Timo was always so keen to be with someone he hated as much as Magnus. It was hard to swallow that Timo could meet Magnus' gaze, but not his own.

What did he see there?

Maybe because Magnus could say so easily whatever came into his mind, and Timo found that charming and attractive. Maybe because Magnus was bold and fearless and took initiative whenever he saw fit. Magnus babbled whatever thoughts popped into his head, quick and witty, and hell, what did _he _do? Berwald just stood there, staring, silent and still, and whenever Timo did try to speak to him, all he usually managed was a dumb, 'huh' or 'hm'.

A hand in front of his face startled him, and when he looked up, Ludwig was hovering above him, reaching for his plate.

"Are you done?"

After an immobile second, he nodded his head. Ludwig didn't move, and opened his mouth, as though about to speak.

"Hey," he said, voice low and rumbling and almost abashed, and Berwald could see him lifting his shoulders a bit in what could have been anxiety, and then, finally, he managed to add a quick, stiff, "Thanks."

Berwald shifted, and then finally uttered, "For what?"

Ludwig shifted too, looking almost as awkward as he himself felt, and then he said, "For letting me stay."

After another belated moment of silence and feeling a little embarrassed without really knowing why, he said, "Sure."

He hadn't really _let _Ludwig stay so much as _forced _him. He was kinda glad that Ludwig interpreted it that way.

It was comforting, at least, to know that Ludwig still thought he was the one and only in charge, even though in all actuality it was a role that was frequently snatched away from him by Timo and mocked by Magnus.

The irritation faded a bit as a little boost of confidence came in, and he added, in a stronger voice, "Don't mention it."

Ludwig finally took his plate, and carried it to the counter.

Just when Berwald had turned his gaze back to space and assumed that the awkward exchange was over, Ludwig suddenly whirled around, hands held out at his sides in strange, palpable apprehension.

"Hey."

Berwald looked over again.

Finally, a low, "Hey...sorry about that kick. You know."

Oh. Right.

He nodded his head, and Ludwig, satisfied, lowered his shoulders and exhaled a bit in relief.

For a moment, he was a little surprised when the corners of Ludwig's lips twitched into a ghost of a smile, and he added, "Hope I didn't really hurt anyone."

He wanted to say, 'we've had worse scrapes', because they had (even if Ludwig's steel-toed boots had hurt like holy hell), but there was no point on dwelling on it anyway.

He only gave a deep, "Mm."

Ludwig finally reached down to take up his mug of coffee from the table, and, as he finished it off, he said, "I'm glad for that, too."

Ludwig ambled off, feet silent on the wooden planks, leaving Berwald to stare after him and sit dumbly still. He wished, as he frequently did, that his throat would stop clutching up on him whenever he needed it.

Ludwig seemed to get the gist pretty well. At least _someone _seemed to understand what he was trying to say.

Usually, Lukas was the only one that did, but Lukas, so strange, seemed to mistranslate his feelings to the others and expand things a little more than Berwald had meant.

'Do you want to come with us to the city?'

'Eh...'

Lukas could understand Berwald's grunt easily, but then when he took it to the others a simple grunt had turned into, 'He said he doesn't wanna go today. He's not feeling well and he has stuff to do.'

Eh? Not _quite _what he had said.

Maybe Ludwig wasn't so bad. He didn't go out looking for trouble and didn't try to start fights (anymore) and, best of all, he didn't try to usurp authority, and seemed to respect _his_. Ludwig wasn't bad at all. If he decided that he wanted to stay, Berwald could get used to him.

Feeling a little better, he tried to take his mind off of wondering what Timo was up to, and when he heard the clanking of metal from outside, he rolled up his sleeves and tried to help Ludwig finish banging dents out of the car as best he could, preferring to keep himself occupied.

Ludwig looked up at him every so often, but was quick to look away when caught, and never spoke. Berwald couldn't help but wonder if maybe he'd been coming off a little too...

Unfriendly.

Ludwig seemed to have loosened up around Timo and even more so around Magnus, but he was not quite certain that Ludwig saw him as equally approachable. Maybe he wasn't. He would have liked to try and make conversation, if only to appear normal and amicable, but could think of no good topics nor words, and just stayed quiet.

Ludwig was quiet, too. However, Ludwig's silence seemed to be more of thoughtfulness and carefulness and observation, not thick ineloquence like his own. If Ludwig had had a mind to talk, he would have, and no doubt smoothly and without much problems.

Like normal people.

As if to prove this, Ludwig, reaching out to pat a hand against the car, said, as they finished up, "Well, there. Almost as good as new." With a very serious gaze, Ludwig turned toward him, and carefully extended a hand, adding, "So no hard feelings, right?"

Why not?

It had been a series of unfortunate events, one that _he_ had started, and Ludwig had only been caught up in the tide. Nothing none of them wouldn't have done had the situation been reversed. A few dents in a car wasn't a bad outcome for all that happened, not when so many things could have gone _wrong_.

So many things.

Ludwig could have hit Timo so hard that he might not have woken up. Magnus might have placed his knee on Ludwig's throat instead of his chest. Ludwig might have turned around and kicked Berwald in the head instead of the ribs. And Berwald's finger could have slipped on the trigger as it had been pressed into Ludwig's forehead.

Brushes with disaster. What was a dented Volvo with scraped paint and a door that creaked when it opened?

Nothing.

He'd take the car.

Reaching out, Berwald accepted the handshake with a nod of his head.

Ludwig smiled a little, eyeing him up and down with a scrutiny that very nearly made him shift his weight (was that how Timo felt?), and then pulled away his hand, and looked off towards the hidden town.

"Quiet place, huh?"

He shrugged a shoulder and gave a quick, "Mm", and Ludwig only sent him a glance.

"You must have grown up in a place like this."

The unspoken reason was, 'because you're quiet too'.

"My town was smaller," he finally said, and did not miss the passing of disbelief across Ludwig's face.

Ludwig, obviously well-bred and with a pedigree, must have lived near the cities back home. Probably a Bavarian, maybe from Munich, from the clarity of his speech when he did open his mouth; not that accent of a Berliner.

Being out here must have been a big change.

"You'll get used to it."

Ludwig didn't answer, staring out into the sides of the mountains, gleaming with snow in the morning sun, and the silence was a little heavy. Maybe Ludwig was starting to get a little homesick.

"Well," Ludwig suddenly said, as he crouched down to wipe smudges of motor-oil from the tops of his boots, "I guess it's home now."

It was.

Feeling a little twinge of something that could have been guilt, Berwald watched him, and finally managed, "You're welcome as long as ya want."

Ludwig only peered up at him, narrow eyes a bit knowing, and he was glad that Ludwig stayed silent and didn't say, 'oh! So now I can leave whenever I want, huh?'

That would have been a little embarrassing, after twisting Ludwig's arm behind his back so hard about it. He was glad that Ludwig observed the situation before he spoke.

Noises in the distance made them turn their heads.

Berwald inhaled in relief.

Because it was a great relief indeed to see Timo and Magnus come barging up the hill so early, smiling breathlessly and cheeks red from the cold, bags slung over their shoulders, and it was an even greater relief that neither of them was drunk.

A minor miracle, actually.

As they passed, Timo sent both of them a smile, and a bright, "Miss me?" and Berwald felt a little guilty for ever doubting Timo's intentions in the first place.

Timo didn't go out just to be with Magnus... Surely not. He was reading too much into it, maybe.

Just running errands.

They disappeared inside the house to toss down their bags of household commodities, and there was hardly a few minutes of stillness before the door banged back open.

"Hey, Ludwig!" came a cheery cry, and when Ludwig looked up, still hunched above his boots, the strange look on his face was immediately obvious. And when Berwald looked back, he knew why.

Timo was standing there, holding two pairs of skis, a wide smile upon his face. Berwald had a feeling where _this _was going, and, forsaking Ludwig to Timo, he stepped back onto the porch and sat down to enjoy the show.

Ludwig's eyes were narrow and suspicious, and when Timo sat two of the skis on the ground and stepped quite comfortably into them, he had straightened back up, eyes darting back and forth as though already plotting an escape.

"Say, you know how to ski, right?" Timo asked, quite eagerly, and Ludwig immediately took a polite (desperate?) step back.

"No."

Just what Timo surely wanted to hear.

"Good."

With that, he tossed a pair of snow boots in front of Ludwig, and smiled.

"Time to learn."

Berwald crossed his legs and propped his boots up on the railing. This would be a _good_ show.

Ludwig only stood there, arms crossed and looking a bit appalled, but not fleeing, perhaps for his politeness.

Watching Timo gliding down the hill and then trudging back up, showing Ludwig the workings of the skis on the last remnants of spring snow, was fairly amusing, if only to see Ludwig fighting so damn hard to keep the skis away from his feet whenever Timo tried to cajole him into trying, a look of mortification on his face.

Maybe Timo and Magnus had placed some kind of bet.

"Come on," Timo goaded, enthusiastically, "Didn't they teach you guys this in basic training?"

Ludwig was quick to retort, as he pulled his feet quickly away from Timo's prying hands, "I wasn't a Gebirgsjäger! They taught me to move across fields, not down mountains!"

Timo only laughed, and continued to reach out.

"Come on! It's not hard. Hey, you wanna move around out here? You gotta learn how to ski! You wanna come out with me in Finland? How do you think you're gonna move around the forests in winter? You plan on hoppin' through the snow when the Red Army's coming after you?"

Ludwig sent Timo a quick glare, obviously not having many intentions of facing the Red Army at _all_, but finally he looked over his shoulder, catching Berwald's eye and sending him a helpless look that very clearly asked, '_Really_?'

Berwald shook his head to himself.

Timo was putting on a pretty good show, and Ludwig's horrified face was enough of a reason for Berwald to finally shrug a shoulder and give a quick nod, conceding a bit to Timo's will.

Ludwig didn't need to know that _he _didn't know how to ski, and neither did Magnus. Let Timo have some fun for a while. Hell, maybe Ludwig would take to it. Having a backup for Timo when he went out there in the wilderness would put his mind at ease a little.

As the sun rose higher and the snow got too soft to continue, Timo called it quits without ever getting Ludwig up on the skis, not that day, but the laughs out of it and the breaking of some of the tension had been worth it; Ludwig had laughed, just a little, when Timo had promised to make him an Edelweiss patch, once he got the hang of it, to make him an Alpine soldier instead.

Afterwards, maybe Ludwig had looked a little disheartened, and a little _lost_, a kid wandering the vast woods, but whatever longings he had for home and country were masked quite well, and he had still accepted the drink that Magnus had offered in the evening with a smile.

Ludwig missed his home. That much was obvious, by the way he stared out into the mountains. No doubt Ludwig missed his uniform and the feeling of being a soldier, too.

Ludwig didn't need to know (yet) that his Wehrmacht uniform hadn't been thrown away. Berwald had washed it and sewed it back into pristine appearance, and kept it his own room, safe from view. It was an invaluable artifact to keep around, although it was still too risky to tell Ludwig that he'd only kept it just in case they ever needed to use it.

In case they needed Ludwig to parade around as a soldier again.

Ludwig would not have responded to _that_ in a manner other than fleeing, likely after harsh words and maybe a punch or two. Ludwig didn't want to go back, but he didn't want to do anything against his own either.

Time was needed, and minds could always be changed. They would wait until Lukas was back and until Ludwig was very well-settled before they made any more moves. Trying to force Ludwig's hand too fast might backfire.

For now, it was tread lightly.

Despite heavy-heartedness and a little melancholy, time passed without incident.

These days were calm.

It barely felt like it had been two weeks since Ludwig had been a bloody nuisance slung over his shoulder. It wasn't really so weird now, seeing him wandering around outside on his own and looking a little more comfortable every day.

Comfortable, but maybe not happy. They never asked him, really, because they still didn't _know _him. He was just Ludwig. He didn't ever give much else.

Questions were neatly deflected or completely ignored, and no matter how delicately Timo pressed or how persistently Magnus asked, he refused to talk about his home and about what had led him to defect in the first place. Ludwig was proving to be as mysterious as he was serious, but Berwald wasn't particularly nosy, and some things were better left unsaid.

He didn't much mind Ludwig's motives, as long as Ludwig didn't cause any trouble.

Or end up betraying them, which, although it seemed a little unlikely, was not really so impossible. In the end, Ludwig was still a German soldier. He could still change his mind, as he already obviously once had.

As they said, once a traitor...

The fifteenth day with their new member was rather eventful.

It came on a normal afternoon, as Berwald and Timo sat out on the porch, playing a friendly game of cards in a moment of calm privacy that Berwald was extremely grateful for. It seemed to be harder and harder to catch Timo alone, and harder and harder to get him to stay and interact.

Luckily, Ludwig was already proving useful in that he was unwittingly able to distract Magnus at times by merely accepting a drink when Magnus offered.

As he sat there, cards in hand and churning through his mind, a sudden, great noise startled him.

"I'll be _goddamned_!" came a sharp cry, and Berwald straightened up in surprise when Timo leapt up from the table so fast that he nearly knocked it over, rushing forward and skidding to halt at the end of the porch, a bright look upon his face.

Turning his head, Berwald followed his gaze, and saw.

Down below, a glimmer of black was visible at the twist in the road. A car approached.

Tossing his cards down onto the table, Berwald hauled himself to his feet, and watched as Timo bounced up and down on his heels eagerly.

Lukas was back.

...about time. 'A while' in Stockholm had turned into some kind of vacation.

Minutes of waiting, and when the car was so close that he could hear the engine, Berwald fell back against the side of the house, and shook his head. Goddamn Lukas, driving everyone up the wall with his recklessness. Way too thoughtless.

A movement at his side.

Behind the door, a tentative Ludwig was peering out, to see what the fuss was about. He cast Berwald a look of curiosity, but Berwald only turned his head away, observing the approaching automobile, unsure of what to say. How could he really tell Ludwig that he hadn't actually met everyone?

That would surely be a little unnerving. Meeting new people.

A minute later and the car was in the drive, and as soon as the engine cut, Timo was bounding down the stairs, smile bright in the sun.

Ludwig bounded too, but in the opposite direction; as soon as he had seen the German-made car, the black paint and the waxed sheen, he had paled like a ghost and fallen backward through the doorframe, tucking himself back into a corner and out of sight, and Berwald knew that it was because he had mistaken the driver of the car for the people it had formerly belonged to; the Wehrmacht.

He was glad though, in a way, that Ludwig had panicked in such a manner. It made it obvious that there was very little possibility that Ludwig would up and leave; he'd be too afraid of encountering his own, perhaps. He wouldn't mind Ludwig staying around. For a while.

Especially if he kept distracting Magnus from Timo.

...okay, maybe that was a little selfish.

A whisper from behind.

"Hey, you okay?"

He looked over his shoulder, and saw that Magnus had come out, and, seeing Ludwig pressed back so far into the corner behind the door that he was practically melded into the wood, he had become a little concerned.

"What's wrong?"

He couldn't hear Ludwig's answer (if any), but he did not miss the flit of Magnus' gaze upon him, nor the quick flash of accusation.

Like _he'd _done something to alarm Ludwig so. Hardly.

What did Magnus care anyway? Fuckin' Magnus had been the one that had wanted to take Ludwig out in the woods and shoot him like a dog not so long ago. Maybe he'd forgotten _that _part already.

He turned his eyes away, and lifted his chin. He heard the creaking of the wood, and even though he did not bother to look, he knew that Magnus had come out onto the porch, no doubt with crossed arms and a look of anger as he waited to lay into Berwald with fervor.

Before he opened his mouth, Magnus looked down, and saw the car. Instantly, the electricity was gone, and suddenly Magnus was at his side, foot tapping excitedly as he waited with impatience, this time to lay into Lukas as soon as he stepped up.

Down below, the car door was pushed open.

Seconds of hesitation, and then Lukas stepped out, pale hair shining bright in the sun and hands dusting off his sleeves rather primly, and everyone heaved a simultaneous sigh.

It was great to see him in one piece and obviously unfazed by his brush with death. Still standing with that same old air of self-absorbed dreaminess.

"Hey," Timo called to him, as he waited at the bottom of the steps, twitching eagerly, "Took you long enough! Say! What did you bring me?"

Lukas looked up at him, as he reached absently into the backseat and pulled out a bag, and then he said, "Was I supposed to bring something? Oh. Sorry."

Timo only shook his head and rolled his eyes before muttering, "Oh, you jerk! I always bring stuff back for you from Helsinki!"

"I thought that was just because you wanted to. I didn't realize we were obligated."

Magnus sighed, and even though he was rolling his eyes, Berwald could see just from the slump of his shoulders how _relieved _he was that Lukas was safe.

And then they caught sight of the bag that Lukas was hauling out from the back.

"The backpack," came the deep whisper of absolute disbelief, as Magnus shook his head. "I don't believe it. He's got the fuckin' backpack. He got it. He got the goddamn thing. He's—he's so _stupid_!"

Berwald had a mind to say, 'well, that must be why he likes you so much,' but refrained.

A creak of the door behind made him turn his head.

Hearing their voices and peering out to see that was not any real danger after all, Ludwig had finally stepped out, silently, and settled back in the corner of the porch, observing the events as an outsider and probably feeling somewhat uncomfortable.

No doubt meeting a new member and facing potential hostility was a little alarming, especially after he'd assumed that he'd settled in. Who knew what Lukas was going to say, weirdo that he was.

Tossing his cherished, torn backpack down upon the steps, Lukas quickly returned to the car, and popped open the trunk. He'd brought something back after all.

"What are those?" Magnus asked, petulantly, as Lukas began to haul heavy brown bags from the trunk.

Without sparing a glance, Lukas called up, "Sandbags."

"For _what_?"

"The driveway."

"It's only gonna snow for a few more weeks."

"We'll save them."

Magnus furrowed his brow, and called, "Well!—where'd you get 'em?"

Lukas dragged one of the bags up towards the steps, and answered, "The hospital in Stockholm. They had a ton of them all around the building. They weren't using them for anything. So. I took a few."

Magnus and Berwald shared an incredulous look, and Magnus cried, as Lukas retreated for another bag, "You know they've got those there in case they get _bombed_, right?"

"Like I said, they aren't using them," Lukas supplied.

Magnus was smiling breathlessly.

"So—so _wait_! You stopped in front of the _hospital_, saw their sandbags, and thought, 'hey, I could use some of these for the driveway at home'?"

Lukas, in the process of hauling another bag, stopped for a second, and after a moment of far-off dreaminess, he murmured, easily, "Mm-hm!"

"What if they get bombed, huh? You're gonna feel real bad that you took 'em!"

Looking up, Lukas caught Magnus' eye, and said, coolly, "No. If they need to, they can always take some from the school. They had a lot, too."

Reaching up and cradling his forehead in his hand, Magnus muttered, "Hang on a second. I need to try and remember why we ever gave you a gun."

"I gave _you _a gun, if I recall correctly."

Turning to look down at Timo, Magnus asked, loudly, "_Why _did you ever give him a gun?"

Timo only shrugged a shoulder.

Dumping of the bags in front of the steps complete, Lukas finally took his first step upward, and onto the porch.

Finally home.

There was only a second of hesitation before Magnus was upon him, pulling into a quick, squeezing embrace that lifted Lukas clear off the ground and then was gone as quickly and randomly as it had come, and Timo and Magnus gathered together to chatter amongst themselves about the sandbags lying in the muddy snow.

Lukas came up to Berwald, treading quietly, and fell to a stop.

"Miss me?" Lukas asked, coolly, and Berwald could only shake his head.

Yeah.

Yeah, he had.

Instead of saying it aloud, he only asked, "So. How'd ya get outta this one?"

Lukas crossed his feet daintily, resting his chin in his palm, and even though he was looking at Berwald, his voice seemed a million miles away as he breathed, "Game of cards."

Magnus chortled somewhere from behind.

A soft sigh of exasperation from Timo, and then Lukas' hazy, wandering eyes finally settled on Ludwig, tucked in the corner, and he tilted his head, a look of detached interest upon his face.

"Oh. What's this?" he finally asked.

'_What_'s this', not 'who's this'. Typical. Lukas had to have known it was the same soldier, and yet the question was still a valid one. Ludwig should have been long gone by now.

Berwald didn't know how to say it, and it was hapless Timo, in the end, who was forced to step forward and say to Lukas, "Ah... New member?"

Ludwig shuffled his feet under their stares of scrutiny, uncomprehending their words and looking a little anxious.

They waited.

And then Lukas stepped forward, dreamy feet silent and sure and unwavering, and it was with a very soft, very cool voice that he extended a hand and said, in neat, pretty German that Berwald never even knew he could speak, "Oh, welcome aboard."

A second of hesitation, and then Ludwig's shoulders fell in relief, and he accepted the hand politely.

"Lukas. Pleasure."

Lukas, always full of surprises. Berwald watched their greeting silently.

"I'm Ludwig."

Lukas continued to shake Ludwig's hand absently, long after the greeting was complete. Ludwig, calm and patient, humored him and did not pull away, and almost seemed interested.

Only Lukas knew where his mind wandered off to at times.

Seconds of silence, and then Ludwig, brow high and eyes gentle, said, awkwardly, "It's...nice to meet you."

The words drew Lukas from his trance and back into the real world.

"Indeed."

The handshake ended, and Ludwig's arms fell loose in complacency.

Lukas finally smiled then, and placed a calm hand upon Ludwig's shoulder, and before Berwald could even figure out what they were going to do _now_, Lukas asked Ludwig, in his hypnotic voice, "Say, Ludwig. Did you know that you can make a bomb out of a deck of cards, a pipe, and some water?"

Ludwig just stared for a moment, and then he smiled too.

"Well," he finally said, his deep, rough voice a striking compliment to Lukas' silvery one, "I do now."

Berwald and Timo shared a look.

Game of cards. Right.

Woe to the poor idiot soldier that had left Lukas in possession of something as innocent as a deck of cards.

Lukas, hand still upon Ludwig's shoulder, began to walk, leading Ludwig along inside the house as he spoke gently to him in words that Berwald could not hear (no doubt lectures on the intricacies of bombs and the such), and Ludwig went along with him, seemingly grateful that his new encounter had gone well.

Timo and Magnus followed, and as they went, Berwald heard Magnus say to Lukas, cheerfully, "Lemme tell ya what a trouble _this _motherfucker was—!"

Berwald hung back.

Well. Everyone was getting along just _fine_, weren't they? The dangerous newcomer had made better friends with these men in days than he had in months. Maybe Ludwig, for all of him, was still just a little more approachable than _he _was.

Kinda sad.

Because Lukas had never thrown an arm around _his _shoulders and tried to explain a bomb to him. Magnus had never come up and offered a drink in the middle of the day to _him_. Timo had never tried to force _him _up onto skis.

Maybe it was because he was the 'leader', or maybe it was just because he'd been here first.

...that sounded right.

After all, when Timo had been new to him, Berwald had hung over him all the time. And when Lukas had been new, he and Timo had hung over _him_. And when Magus had been new, Timo and Lukas had hung over _him_.

New was better. Ludwig was still new. That made him interesting, and so it didn't really surprise Berwald that everyone hovered over him and attempted to engage him in conversation, if just to get a feel of him. To figure out where he stood. It would pass after another week or two, maybe a month, and then Ludwig would just be one of the gang. A little more interesting than the others, certainly, if only because of how he had wound up here and how much trouble it had been, but still a normal member.

Still, Berwald couldn't help but wish, just a little, that everyone would try to hang over him.

Just once.

Brow low and feeling a little agitated, he finally found his feet, and followed them inside.

That was how the group had fallen back together.

Five now, instead of four. Hopefully it wasn't one too many. They were pressing their luck, perhaps.

Well, it was kind of late to do anything about it now, and this train had already left the station.

No goin' back.

The first night that everyone was together was spent relaying Lukas with tales of brawling (in which, of course, Magnus was the hero by successfully decking Ludwig on three separate occasions) and trying to integrate Ludwig in the group all over again. Berwald chose to stay outside for most of it, so that he wouldn't hear everything that Magnus was no doubt saying about him.

It would be unwise to start a fight in front of Ludwig, and expose a weakness in their armor. The Germans had always been skilled, after all, at turning neighbors against one another. Until Ludwig's motives were known, it was better to look at him as a wild dog; calm and friendly at your side, and quick to grab your throat the second you fell.

Caution.

The second day with Lukas back felt a little better than the first, now that Magnus had surely gotten everything off of his chest that he had wanted to say, and there was no reason for any hostility.

They sat inside, cleaning the guns in the every-other-nightly ritual.

Berwald took his usual spot on the couch, leaning above the coffee table, and Lukas sat off on the floor, cross-legged and tongue sticking out as he hovered above cables (Lukas only had one gun, which he rarely cleaned, in favor of his many bombs). Timo and Magnus occupied the kitchen table, and Ludwig, shifting and looking a bit left out, leaned back, watching them all in turn with an observing eye.

He was probably hoping to be invited to interact, since Berwald had not yet made good on his offer to give him a gun.

Not just yet. He'd feel safer to wait a few more weeks. Even if it wouldn't have been hard for Ludwig to bust in the cabinet if he had even a little mind to and just grab a gun for himself.

Every so often, he found himself looking up at restless, shifting Ludwig, and wondered if maybe Ludwig was having second thoughts about all of this.

"Hey, Ludwig!" Timo suddenly called, cheerily, and Berwald turned his head to watch them interact, if only for curiosity's sake.

Ludwig stood there, leaning against the wall, arms crossed above his chest as he watched Lukas tinkering with cables that looked far more innocent than they were, and when Timo called his name, he looked over, ever-watchful eyes finding Timo immediately across the room. Magnus was whispering mischievously under his breath.

Berwald could already feel the narrowing of his eyes. What were they up to now?

Ludwig's arms fell loose as he turned, and he seemed surprised, but not disappointed, to be acknowledged and maybe even be asked to participate.

A hopeful look.

A deep, "Hm?", and Timo, no doubt at Magnus' cajoling, sent him a coy smile.

"Hey, Ludwig," he began, in that friendly voice that was easy on the ears, "it's been a long day! You want a Molotov cocktail?"

A silence, as Ludwig stood there with wide eyes and a tilted head of confusion, and then Timo and Magnus began to giggle, and Berwald was momentarily agitated that they were teasing Ludwig. Not malicious, certainly—Timo was too kind and Magnus too playful—but teasing nonetheless.

Then again, his sense of humor had never been very prevalent. Maybe he got irritated too easily.

Finally, Ludwig found his voice and took a step forward, expression curious, and he asked, "A—a what?"

Timo tittered, and then with a quick flick of his wrist, he reached over his shoulder and tossed something back. Ludwig, with those trained reflexes, caught it without effort, and when he saw that it was a vodka bottle full of kerosene, with a rag sticking out from the stopper, his look was suddenly so confused that Berwald could only shake his head and sigh.

"A Molotov cocktail! Get it? To go with the bread basket?" Timo cried, enthusiastically, as Magnus dissolved into helpless laughter, and Ludwig only stood there in complete incomprehension, and began to shuffle his feet.

Berwald almost felt embarrassed for him.

Finally, after seconds of giggling, they gathered themselves, and Timo asked, "Get it?"

Ludwig just stood there, staring down at the makeshift explosive with a furrowed brow of confusion, and finally, Timo waved a dismissive hand in the air, saying breezily, "Ah. You don't get it! Don't worry about it. It's just a joke. I'm just teasin' ya."

Magnus shook his head, a wide smile upon his face, and when he turned back to the table and set back to work, Timo at his side, Ludwig's brow was ever lower. Another round of staring intently at the bottle, and then Ludwig finally conceded defeat and shuffled silently over to Berwald, leaning in and asking, as quietly as possible, "What's a Molotov cocktail?"

He could feel Ludwig's breath shifting strands of his hair.

For a moment, Berwald was distracted by how _close _Ludwig had felt it necessary to come in just to ask a question, but he finally wrote it off as not wanting to be heard (and ridiculed) more by the devilish pair, and shook his head.

"The war between the Soviets and Finns—they ran out of ammo, so the Finns started usin' vodka bottles and setting them on fire. That's what they call 'em. You know. For Molotov? The bombs and all that?"

A silence, and then Ludwig said, simply, "Oh," and it was quite clear to Berwald from his low brow and churning eyes that he still in no way comprehended the joke. And Berwald, with no interest for plays on words, did not bother to explain it to him.

Who really cared, anyway?

They shouldn't have been teasing him in the first place.

Ludwig straightened up, and for a second just stood there, looking around the busy room quietly, and then he reached down with gentle hands and set the bottle of flammable liquid very carefully upon the floor. Another second of lingering, and then he retreated to his spot against the wall, tucking his hands into his pockets.

Berwald couldn't help but look up at him every so often from above the barrel of the gun that he was cleaning, and even though Ludwig tried his best to keep his face impassive, it was quite clear to anyone who would have bothered to look that he felt exceedingly out of place, and left out.

Useless.

Looking about this way and that, as though searching for a way to help out, and when he found no opportunity, Ludwig finally lowered his eyes to his feet and furrowed his brow. It couldn't have been easy, to be standing alone and without guidance in a room full of complete strangers who by all rights should have been enemies, and who had all but taken him captive and then refused to really let him do much.

He felt embarrassed for Ludwig, who stood there alone, staring holes into his shoes and no doubt feeling dejected. And a dejected Ludwig could possibly prove to be a dangerous Ludwig.

Who knew if Ludwig would just change sides again? It was better to keep him engaged.

That feeling of empathy for someone else was what caused him to finally look up, despite himself, and mutter, "Hey."

Ludwig's gaze snapped up, catching his own instantly. Ready to be set to work.

It was something he never, ever did, but his body seemed to be moving of its own accord, and he felt himself twitching his head to invite Ludwig over.

"C'mere."

Better safe than sorry.

Ludwig pushed off the wall immediately, looking eager and willing to do whatever Berwald would put upon him, and when he was near the table, Berwald inclined his head to the seat beside of him.

He could feel Timo's eyes upon him as Ludwig sat, quickly.

"Here," he said, somewhat gruffly and maybe a bit reluctantly, and after a second of hesitation, he braced his shoulders and set the Gevär that he prized down before Ludwig, gently.

Ludwig tensed in excitement.

Ah, hell. He _hated _people touching his guns.

"Clean this," he finally managed, voice so low that it nearly cracked, and Ludwig sent him a look that appeared to be a mixture of incredulousness and maybe gratitude, and immediately he hunkered down and set to work, removing the scope with obviously experienced hands.

Even though he had other rifles to clean, Berwald couldn't really seem to focus, and made it a point to look up at Ludwig anxiously every few seconds.

Just in case.

Timo joked sometimes, 'Nobody touch Berwald's guns! He'll pitch a fit!,' and maybe it was true. But when it came down to something that could save your life, he didn't really see why it was so strange that he should be so damn fussy about it.

It wasn't something to be so flippant about.

Ludwig set to work, and after a moment of observation, it became clear to Berwald that Ludwig was indeed practiced in this. Fingers moving smoothly and carefully, eagle eyes observing every minute detail.

Ludwig knew his way around a rifle. For the first time, he felt himself relax (just a little), and entrusted Ludwig to the task. Besides, if he couldn't sleep later he could always go back over it himself. Not like he had anything else to do, except chop fuckin' firewood.

As Ludwig took apart the rifle, Berwald happened to glance up, and was a bit overwhelmed to see that Timo was beaming over at him from within the kitchen, almost proudly.

Christ.

Timo hadn't smiled at him like _that_ since when they had first met. He felt his chest puffing out, just a bit, and quickly set back to work with a rush of adrenaline.

Who knew that all he had to do to get Timo to smile at him was just to be nice to their hapless newcomer? He'd have done it sooner.

...yeah, maybe Ludwig wasn't bad at all.

A blessing in disguise.

The minutes ticked by, with friendly chatter from within the kitchen and an occasional curse from Lukas as a cable slipped or didn't curve like he wanted, and Ludwig's shoulders had lowered as anxiety slowly faded.

He looked a little happier, almost, to be touching something familiar. Home away from home. Berwald did notice, however, that Ludwig seemed to be glancing up at him in very frequent intervals.

He played it off, and pretended he didn't see. Just grateful for being invited, no doubt. Kinda made him nervous, though, knowing he was being watched.

"So!" Timo finally piped up, breaking the long silence and drawing away Ludwig's eyes for a second, "What are we all thinkin' for dinner tonight?"

A thoughtful silence.

On the couch, Ludwig opened his mouth as if to offer an opinion, and then froze still, and suddenly looked apprehensive, as though he had decided that he was not really enough a part of the group yet to suggest what could be eaten at dinner, perhaps since he had already usurped breakfast, or perhaps because he was not used to Lukas.

Staying silent, Ludwig only looked around at them, and then cast a somewhat apprehensive glance at Berwald, as if he might have done something wrong.

Ludwig sure didn't have a problem banging on his door at unholy hours and forcing him out of bed, so why stop short now?

...maybe he should try to appear a little friendlier. Should he smile, or something? He meant to open his mouth and say something, anything really, to make himself a little more approachable, but he missed the opportunity.

Lukas, tilting back his head and tapping his chin thoughtfully with his index finger, suddenly murmured, "I think I'll have some of that bread basket."

Magnus tittered.

Ludwig turned his eyes down to strange Lukas, and the chance to speak was gone.

Oh well. Berwald was used to losing such opportunities, and turned back to his gun without much disappointment.

Looking up, Lukas suddenly caught Ludwig's gaze, and asked, curiously, "Say, Ludwig, have you ever planted mines?"

Ludwig, looking a little curious himself at the odd question, only replied, "No, can't say I have."

"That's a shame," Lukas quipped, lowly, and, as Berwald listened and shook his head, Lukas started another impromptu lecture about the delicacies of placing mines and, more importantly, making them.

Ludwig just sat there, with uncanny patience, and nodded his head politely. Timo and Magnus giggled together in the kitchen.

And suddenly Berwald couldn't help but feel a bit _overwhelmed _by them.

The four of them, each of them as bold as the next, if only in different ways.

Four directions. Four winds.

Magnus, volatile and strong and sure, reigning from the North. Timo, gentle and friendly and playful, holding out the West. Lukas, cool and strange and intense, keeping charge of the South.

Now there was Ludwig, quiet and calm and fearless, hailing in from the East.

It had been alright when _he _had been the fourth, but now he was the fifth. The odd man out.

Where did that leave him?

In an optimistic mood, he would have perhaps said it left him in the center; the needle in the compass, to guide and direct.

Most of the time, he just felt pushed far out of the circle.

Magnus and Timo seemed to be spending more and more time together, giggling and joking and always _together_, the lion and the bear in perfect harmony. The audacious, outgoing, loud, vivacious duo. Around Magnus, Timo didn't duck his head and shuffle his feet. Quite the contrary! His chin was high and eyes bright, shoulders braced in confidence and always smiling surely, and Magnus' chest was always stuck out. The trouble-makers, bold and opinionative.

Now that Magnus' time was being devoured by Timo, Lukas seemed to have taken Ludwig under his wing, at least for the purpose of amalgamation, and, indeed, at every turn and bend the entire day, Lukas had been quick to point everything out to Ludwig and make sure that he comprehended what was going on around him. The owl and the eagle, both of them always observing and always honing in and always _thinking_. Calculating and sometimes thinking about things too much. They tested the waters before they leapt in, and they almost certainly had a back-up plan for every situation.

Magnus and Timo. Lukas and Ludwig.

He felt a bit left out.

Still. Odd man out or no, at least he wasn't alone like he always had been before. He rather liked the company they brought him, even if he didn't show it and couldn't ever tell them, and even if sometimes they confused him a little.

If he called himself leader, then he should be used to standing off to the side. For now, it all seemed promising.

"You a good shot, Ludde?" came Magnus' inquiry over the quiet chatter, "Or are you just one of those guys that look really good holdin' a rifle?"

Ludwig peered up above the scope, and only said, quite primly, "I'll show you how good a shot I am if you call me that again."

Magnus laughed, and surprisingly, the sound of it didn't bother Berwald much this time.

Not while he was in a pretty good mood.

"Tomorrow, we can all go out in the woods and test you out a bit," Timo offered, casually, much in the same manner he would have used if speaking about testing a new tool, and Ludwig only snorted as he scrutinized the scope of the rifle with careful eyes.

Lukas lifted up his head, and was quick to butt in, in native Norwegian, "No way, I'm having a go at him first! I wanna see if he knows how to put together a butterfly. I can't get the wings to fold over right."

Timo asked, a bit suspiciously, "And...where has this one been at?"

"Under my bed."

Timo paled a little, and Berwald knew why; in Lukas' absence and with Ludwig in his, Timo had been sleeping in Lukas' bed. _That _would have been a shock to discover.

Magnus looked up and spat, "I wish you'd stop making' fuckin' bombs inside the _house_, especially if ya don't know _how_!"

For once, Berwald and Magnus were in perfect agreement.

"I've got the bomb right, just not the case. That's what I need an engineer for."

"T-that's not the point! What're ya makin' a butterfly for anyway? You got a plane to drop it out of that we don't know about?"

Before Lukas could respond, Timo grumbled, "Wouldn't surprise me."

Well, Lukas _was _full of surprises.

"Just trying something new," was the casual response, and Ludwig, having no comprehension of the latter part of the conversation, only glanced up in unease.

Berwald couldn't help but wonder if that unease would have intensified if he knew he'd be around a bomb in the near future.

Not a good idea. Not after the train.

Speaking up in a rare moment, Berwald muttered, lowly, "Tell him what he's doin' before you pull it out. Don't surprise him with it. And don't force him if he doesn't want to."

Thankfully, Lukas heeded his word, unlike Magnus, and nodded his head quickly, understanding. Pulling bombs out in front of a displaced, uncomfortable Wehrmacht seemed more than a little risky, especially if there was an indication that that bomb would be used to hurt other Wehrmacht.

After a short silence, Magnus said, "Don't bother with the bombs. He's a sniper, anyway."

Lukas only gave a quick, "Hm!"

They fell silent again, and the night went on.

Ludwig was next to him the whole while.

It felt a little strange, having someone sit beside of him and interact with him, maybe a little too uncomfortable after he'd been a loner for so long, but the beam of pride on Timo's face was well worth it.

If it made Timo happy, he would extend a helping hand to Ludwig when it was needed.

As well as he knew how.

He must have doing a pretty good job.

It seemed that every time he looked up, Ludwig was watching him.


	8. Come In, Stranger

**Chapter 8**

**Come In, Stranger**

The snow was melting.

Grass sprouting up. Flowers. The smell of foliage mingled with the scent of the rivers as they rose up in their beds with the collection of melting ice.

The fragile quiet of winter was a little less quiet now. Birds were chirping all over the place. The sound of rushing water winding through the mountains. Squirrels leaping through the trees. The hooves of deer scuffling through the forests.

Spring. Or almost, anyway. The season changed, the leaves were sprouting, and the weather was fair.

Ludwig looked calmer.

Berwald noted that Ludwig had started wandering a lot. Dressed in normal clothing and usually stuck at Magnus' side, he had even gone off into the town and looked around, keeping his mouth shut so as not to startle anyone, and Magnus had said that he had successfully 'met' one of the locals by merely shaking hands and nodding his head.

Playing the strong, silent type. No one would ever know he wasn't Swedish if he didn't open his mouth and speak.

Settling in.

There was no getting around it, and sometimes Berwald stopped and _really _thought about it, and found himself sighing and shaking his head and wondering how the hell this had ever happened.

Ludwig was adapting well. As a trained soldier would be expected to adapt to an unusual and unexpected situation.

In all honesty, maybe _he _was the one having trouble adapting. Change had always been a little hard.

The loss of his parents had hurt, knowing that things would change and he wouldn't see familiar faces in the kitchen anymore. Having to leave his childhood home to go stay with his grandmother had been terrible, knowing that all familiar landscapes would no longer be there to comfort. His grandmother's death had been traumatic, knowing that he was alone now, with no other family on the earth. And returning to his place of birth afterwards and seeing it all _gone_, the trees cut down and the house no longer there and all nostalgia dissolved, had been devastating.

Nothing.

Everything had changed.

He had fallen into a routine here. Ludwig was shaking it up.

Adaptation was _hard_.

It was only adding to his distress that Timo and Magnus and Lukas were taking everything in such good stride. They woke up in the morning and never even stopped to think that something was _different_. Timo leaned in to Ludwig's side and giggled as if they'd known each other since childhood. Magnus slapped Ludwig on the back so hard that he nearly tottered, as if he'd been doing so for years. Lukas intruded on Ludwig's personal space as easily as a parent intruded on their child.

He envied them, and their ability to settle in.

Even Ludwig was taking this in better stride than _he _was, and Ludwig was the one that had been blown up, kidnapped, threatened with death, and forced into spiteful submission.

He liked Ludwig, but it was still just a little..._strange_.

Oh, well. He better get used to it, and fast, because it looked like Ludwig wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. Everyone else had settled in. He was the only one that still looked over at Ludwig like he was out of place.

Ludwig, all things considered, took his strange looks well and never commented on it or asked what his problem was.

Come to think, Ludwig had a store of his own strange looks that he seemed to direct only at Berwald, whenever he thought he wasn't being noticed.

So maybe they were even, in a way.

Despite his slow acceptance and reluctances, he made an effort, however small, to make Ludwig feel at ease within the household. Keeping him active and involved was imperative.

Luckily, he didn't have to lift his hand a lot in that department.

Lukas seemed quite happy to do it for him. Lukas seemed quite happy to do it for _everyone_. Hovering above Ludwig like a goddamn ghost every time Berwald looked up.

Most of the time, the look upon Ludwig's face was something similar to a man who had been caught doing something wrong.

Berwald could certainly understand, because Lukas had a way of making everyone extremely uncomfortable without really even trying.

Kinda funny to watch though. Ludwig standing there in the hall and Lukas all but materializing right beside of him, eliciting a jump of surprise and a nervous laugh from Ludwig. Ludwig sitting at the kitchen table and Lukas plopping down beside of him and leaning in so close to talk that his nose was practically bumping Ludwig's cheek, earning him an anxious smile and a scoot of Ludwig's chair. Ludwig wandering about outside and Lukas melding in beside of him and tossing an arm around his shoulders, inducing an uneasy tensing and quicker pace from Ludwig.

Lukas didn't seem to realize how damn unnerving he was. Well. At least Ludwig wasn't left alone for very long. Maybe that was a good thing. Less time to think and mope.

Spring improved most moods.

Berwald was content to enjoy the warmer air and the first sight of color.

As soon as breakfast was finished, he made a beeline for the door, yanking on his boots and stepping out into the spring breeze.

Someone had beaten him outdoors.

Lukas.

Lounging in a chair, bare feet resting on the railing and arms crossed behind his head, he stared up at the blue sky and hummed to himself, swaying one foot cheerfully in the air.

Berwald decided to join him.

It had been a long time since he'd sat down with Lukas.

Lukas rolled his head over to the side, and eyed him up and down.

"Morning. Sleep well?"

"Yup."

With that, Lukas turned his eyes back to the sky, and resumed his humming.

Berwald looked out to the mountains, and saw the birds flying up above the forests, coming back from their winter migrations.

He felt rather mellow. In no rush to start the day.

Lukas, on the other hand, was ready to engage in conversation, as he so frequently was.

"So. Mind telling me what exactly this is all about?"

All this?

Ludwig, no doubt.

"Why d'ya need to hear all this again? Didn't they already tell ya?" he muttered, as he propped his own boots up on the railing beside of Lukas', and Lukas only fell still, and then gave a snort.

"Well, I'd like to hear a version that's a little less dramatic, if it's all the same with you."

Timo and Magnus _did _have a flair for drama.

So, he told Lukas everything he'd missed. Without the excess excitement and extravagant gesturing. He also spared his own pride, and omitted his inability to take Ludwig down on multiple occasions. For all the good it did. Magnus had already told Lukas all of that, for sure.

Lukas listened quietly and carefully, and didn't interrupt. When he wrapped up the tale, he crossed one foot atop the other and said, "And that's about it."

"Hm. Thanks."

Lukas seemed happy to leave it at that.

Berwald glanced over at him through narrowed eyes of annoyance, and when Lukas stayed silent, he prodded, "Well?"

"What?"

"What d'ya think? No opinion?"

"Sure."

Berwald waited.

Lukas gawked up at the sky, foot swaying back and forth.

No answer.

"Well?"

"Hm?"

Fuckin' psycho.

"What's your opinion?"

"Oh."

Finally moving a little, Lukas rolled his head back over and met his gaze, and the dreamy smile on his face was a little irritating. Nothing ever bothered Lukas.

"I say more is better. That was some luck that you two came across each other."

"I don't know. Maybe I went about it all the wrong way. Maybe I shoulda just left him there."

"Why? Everything worked out just fine, didn't it?"

Berwald scoffed, and reached up to rub the center of his forehead as the familiar old pang of self-doubt came creeping up.

"Yeah! But that was all luck. I didn't know what was gonna happen. How could I have known? It coulda turned out the other way, easy. I shoulda thought about it more. I should make better decisions. I don't...know what I'm doin'."

An odd stillness.

Wind blowing through the trees.

He didn't trust himself to do the right thing when it was needed.

Now Lukas sat up and leaned forward, as close now to Berwald as he ever was to Ludwig, eyes wide and alert and oddly excited, and when he spoke, his distant voice had sharpened and clarified. He was nearly bristling with what could very well have been exhilaration.

A breathless statement.

"Don't doubt yourself. This Ragnarök has already started. Brothers killing brothers. Mothers and sisters suffering. The wolf is loose. The world's on fire. Thinking about what you might have done or what might have happened won't do anyone any good. Someone has to be Odin now, in this mess. You're the leader. We look to you. We trust you. We'll follow you. And who knows? Maybe it wasn't luck at all. Maybe you were meant to bring him here. He could be the turning of the tide. It only takes one spark to set off a chain reaction."

He might have been scared of Lukas then, a little, if not for that name. Odin.

Did Lukas really admire him so?

Misplaced faith.

Caught in Lukas' intensity, Berwald could only shake his head, and mutter, "You make it sound like we're really gonna accomplish somethin'. What does it matter? Even with Ludwig, we still won't make a difference. We can't turn the war around."

"Nope," Lukas responded, breezily, "Sure can't! But if I can get out there and just save one person or make everything harder for the occupiers, then that's good enough for me." He leaned back into his seat, and sent Berwald a cool glance. "Can't save the world, but saving one person is more than you'd ever do if you just went back home. You saved Ludwig, didn't you?"

No. Ludwig had saved himself, through perseverance and boldness. He hadn't done that.

"I didn't save him. That was luck."

"Oh? How so?"

"You got caught. If not—"

"You'd have shot him?"

Lukas was staring at him again, in that fixed, unnerving way.

He shifted, uneasily, and stayed silent.

"You had a gun, didn't you? You picked him up and brought him home before I even left. You could have shot him out there in the field. You didn't. You brought him here instead. And it just so happened that this is exactly where he had intended to be. So. You saved him."

"If you say so."

Lukas snorted.

"You should worry about things less. What happens will happen. If you were as big a screw-up as you think you are, we'd have all bailed out on you a long time ago. You're a good leader. I'm glad to follow you. I'm sure everyone else thinks the same. Even Ludwig."

He could feel the warmth on his cheeks. He wished he could talk like Lukas, and say so honestly whatever came to mind.

"So," Berwald finally muttered, a little embarrassed, "Has he told you why he's runnin'?"

A valid attempt at changing the conversation. And besides, Ludwig's reasons were something of curiosity, even to himself.

Lukas only repositioned his hands back behind his head and said, airily, "I haven't asked."

"Oh? Yer so good at bein' nosy I was sure you'd already pried it outta him. What the hell you guys talk about all the time, then?"

Lukas smiled.

"Things." His embarrassment intensified when Lukas smiled in a creepy, lopsided way, and added, "You."

..._him_?

A horrible rush of anxiety and self-consciousness. His worst fear; people talking about him when he wasn't there. He worried _so _much about how others saw him. So much. He worried about the impression he left upon those he met.

Even if Lukas was just teasing him a little, knowing his fears, it was still alarming to wonder what Ludwig really thought about him.

He didn't have time to ask.

A voice from behind.

"I thought I heard my name. You guys talkin' about me?"

They wrenched back their heads at the same time, to see Ludwig standing there, leaning against the doorframe. Who knew how long he'd been standing there. Hadn't even heard him approaching.

Berwald found himself in Ludwig's sights, but before he could open his mouth to respond, Lukas twisted in his seat and stared up at Ludwig with a strange, leering smile.

"Yes, we were. I was saying that you make me think of Vidarr. Say, Ludwig, did you know that when Fenrir swallowed Odin whole, it was Vidarr who killed the wolf to avenge him?"

Silence.

Well, that was...random.

Ludwig started to fidget, as he often did when Lukas was staring at him, and finally said, "Oh. Eh—_what_?"

"Didn't you learn any of this in school?"

"Any of _what_?"

Poor Ludwig.

Berwald rolled his eyes, even as the churn of unease suddenly lit up his veins.

The death of Odin. Hadn't Lukas referred to _him _as Odin before? The leader. The man in charge. And Odin had been devoured by the great wolf.

The great wolf now was the war machine, setting the world ablaze right before their eyes.

Lukas babbled away to Ludwig about things that no normal person would really even understand, but Ludwig just listened and nodded his head anyway—

—_Unfettered will fare the Fenris Wolf and ravaged the realm of men, ere that cometh a kingly prince as good, to stand in his stead_—

—and humored him, smiling even though he couldn't possibly have comprehended.

Despite the warming of the air, he shivered a bit.

The smooth flowing of Lukas' voice above the breeze was like an eerily calming creek.

He tried to clear his mind of strange thoughts, and focus on other things.

Lukas was truly a strange man.

But, even with the unease he brought, Berwald was grateful for Lukas, who had (perhaps inadvertently) done him a great service and saved him from what could have been an absolute meltdown not so long ago, whatever unknowing warnings he uttered now.

It had happened the day after Lukas had returned. Ludwig, in Timo's bed, and Timo in Lukas'. There had been a sudden conversation amongst them before bedtime.

'Who sleeps where?'

It had twisted Berwald's stomach like a fuckin' _knife _when Magnus had piped up and said, 'Well, Timo! Looks like you're out a bed! Guess you're on the couch. Unless, you know, you don't mind sharing. You could stay in my room—er, if you want to!'

Oh, _God_, _oh _God, never had his heart raced like it had then, and never had there been such a rush of horror and anger and _hurt_.

He could have died.

It only got worse when Timo had turned to Magnus, and said, 'Well, you snore pretty bad, but I guess I can live with that!'

He had nearly gone berserk, and who knew where _that _would have led, although the motive for why would have been hard to explain.

A sudden savior.

Lukas, weirdo, had stepped forward to where silent Ludwig had been watching the conversation, and quickly slung an arm around Ludwig's shoulders as he met Berwald's gaze.

'Say!' he'd began, languorously, 'Don't worry about it! Timo can have his bed back. Me and Ludwig will share. I can tell we're gonna get along really well.' Turning to Ludwig, Lukas had pulled him in and shaken him, gently, adding, 'Right?'

Ludwig had sputtered a bit, cheeks flushed, before finally conceding with a thin, 'R-right! No problem. Sure, sure, that's—that's fine!'

Ludwig had agreed, sure, but the constant shuffling back and forth and the twiddling of his thumbs in the loops of his belt were clear indicators that he was extremely uncomfortable with the idea of sharing a bed with a complete stranger, and especially one as _strange_ as Lukas.

Ludwig's mental comfort or no, crisis averted.

It should have been a relief. But the way Timo and Magnus' faces had _fallen_? Really hadn't made him feel all that much better.

Like someone had snatched the rug out from right under their feet.

A smile of regret from Magnus. A lifted brow and lidded eyes of resignation. Of having something within his grasp that he _desperately _wanted only to have it slip through his fingers.

Berwald knew that smile well. He'd worn it a few times.

Anyway, the fact of the matter was that Magnus was sleeping very much alone, and that was all that he cared about.

Poor Ludwig, though.

* * *

><p>The flowers were starting to bloom. A week passed, and then two. And then suddenly, before he really even knew it, Ludwig had been with them for two months.<p>

Two months.

Where had _that _time gone?

It still felt like yesterday that the field had been lit up like an inferno.

Since then, not much had changed, except that Timo had been experimenting with light facial hair, Magnus had actually started combing his own hair before he came out of his room, Berwald had stopped double-taking whenever he saw Ludwig, and Lukas and Ludwig had become close.

Well.

As close as two people as odd and unreadable as Lukas and Ludwig could ever be. With those two together, who really knew how they felt about each other? Even if they hadn't gotten along at all, it would have been hard to tell, since Ludwig was so patient and quiet and Lukas was so dreamy and aloof.

From what Berwald could grasp of them, they seemed like two peas in a pod; almost always together, almost always muttering away to each other in hushed tones, and almost always falling back toward each other when other ventures stopped short.

Magnus would stop and look at them sometimes, standing in a corner or leaning against the wall, and say, with a smile, 'Aha! There they are! Hamlet and Horatio! It's great to see you guys gettin' along so well!'

When Ludwig rolled his eyes, Lukas would snit something along the lines of, 'he's much easier to handle than you,' and Magnus would only wave a hand in the air and do was he was good at :

Being dramatic.

'So I've been replaced? Hey! Aren't we all friends?'

'Only when it's necessary.'

'Ah! I see! 'Friendship is constant in all things, save in the office and affairs of love!''

Lukas always smiled and Ludwig always stared, and Berwald could only narrow his eyes and shift his weight, not understanding the references that Magnus made. No doubt Shakespeare, one of quirky Magnus' unusual passions.

Where Lukas had mythology, Magnus had Shakespeare. And, like Lukas, he wasn't afraid to whip it out and shove it down your throat.

It hadn't helped Berwald's hatred of Magnus when he had learned early on that not only was Magnus loud, obnoxious, self-confident, bold, aggressive, outgoing, and charming, but that he was also _smart_, and very well-spoken whenever he chose to be.

A triple threat.

Hearing Magnus suddenly burst into emphatic prose (usually in Timo's presence), sometimes while assuming a dramatic stance on one knee or holding a hand before his face, and reciting passages and passages from memory alone was a little _alarming_.

_He _could never do things like that. He could never draw people in and make friends like Magnus could.

So he would always be the looming shadow in the back, staring over still and silent as Magnus charmed Timo right off his goddamn feet. Literally; sometimes Magnus was _so _funny that Timo laughed so hard he doubled over and fell right back onto the floor in tears.

Timo's laugh—his _real _laugh—was something that only Magnus could draw out. A full-blown, snorting, unstoppable chortle that usually left him red-faced and breathless, it was nothing at all like that nervous little titter that he gave Berwald whenever they spoke.

Not even the same planet.

It was great to hear it, though, even if he wasn't the one that had elicited it.

He seemed to hear it a lot more now.

No surprise; now that Lukas was usually found at Ludwig's side, that meant that Magnus and Timo had become inseparable. Lukas, who had been a savior before, had somehow unwittingly become Magnus' springboard.

A short reprieve had been granted when Magnus had left for a week to go sneaking around Denmark close to the shore, doing whatever the hell he did when he went there.

That whole week, Berwald had thought he would have a great chance set out before him.

Yet that whole week, Timo had only sat there by the window, staring out into the mountains, chin held in his palm, looking pale and tired and a little sick. He hadn't eaten much, no matter how hard Ludwig poked and prodded him, and he looked so worried and so _depressed _that Berwald hadn't had the heart to even try to speak to him.

He just sat there, and stared. Watching the drive.

Didn't talk much.

It was obvious why, but it still hurt to have it proven when Magnus came back, and Timo returned to his old self like the blooming of spring. As soon as Magnus had walked back through that door, the circles under Timo's eyes had all but vanished. No more gloom. They stood there at the door, smiling at each other like they hadn't seen each other in a month instead of just a week.

Berwald could feel the uphill battle.

Magnus was already nearing the top, as Berwald stood down below, hands on his knees and gasping for breath. He couldn't keep up. He couldn't win outright, not against Magnus. Not head on.

Nothing he did ever really seemed to make Timo look at him twice. Magnus didn't even _try_, and Timo couldn't take his fuckin' eyes off of him.

Berwald had brought Timo a jug of terva, that he'd acquired from a man in town who had a Finnish father, in an attempt to give Timo a little bit of home.

Timo had smiled, eagerly, and said, 'Oh, hey! Thanks! Oh man, I've missed this stuff! Berwald, you didn't have to do that for me!'

Berwald's exhilaration hadn't lasted.

Magnus, idiot, had gone outside and plucked two spring flowers that were sprouting up, bringing it back in and presenting it to Timo in that expectedly dramatic fashion, going so far as to roll up his sleeves and remove his hat to clench it under his arm, holding the flowers out to Timo in either hand and saying, smoothly, 'It's springtime! Pick one!'

'Only one?'

'Only one.'

'Well,' Timo had said, 'I'll take this one.'

'Good choice!'

Berwald's first thought then had been, 'Yeah right. How lame.'

Shameless.

So it had surprised him, in a bad way, when Timo had beamed brighter than the sun itself and tucked the little white flower that he had chosen in his breast pocket, as Magnus kept the red one for himself. Timo followed Magnus around for the rest of the week, like a lost puppy.

The jug of terva sat forgotten in the corner.

...how had _that _happened?

Ludwig had seen him sitting there at the kitchen table, staring morosely down into a mug of cold coffee, and had asked, 'You alright?'

He hadn't answered.

Ludwig had finally drifted off after a few minutes, not pressing the matter, and Berwald was glad. What would he have said?

'Sorry I'm bein' a jerk, Ludwig, I'm just having a bad week 'cause my ass was just handed to me by a man who can barely fire a gun.'

He was ready to give up, honestly.

He couldn't win.

Conceding hurt, though, so he still pretended.

Lukas may have become a springboard for Magnus, but Ludwig had become his, whether he knew it or not.

Timo had looked so proud when he had extended a helping hand to Ludwig that night he had allowed him to participate in the gun cleaning, and so it was only natural that the next step in this different war was to use Ludwig as much as he could to draw Timo's eye.

Timo liked Ludwig, had all along, so it pleased him when Berwald interacted with him.

In an effort to get that look again and try to raise himself up in good standing with Timo, he went out of his way to offer awkward verbal support to Ludwig when he looked down, and to make sure that he always had something to do and that he was never in the dark for anything.

When he did, Timo just smiled.

He didn't feel completely like he was _using _Ludwig. Well—maybe he _was_, but it wasn't like it was for a bad purpose, and it wasn't like Ludwig was getting hurt, so no harm, no foul!

Befriend Ludwig, win over Timo. It seemed simple, in theory.

It didn't really occur to him, as mesmerized in Timo's proud smile as he was, that maybe his actions were being misinterpreted by Ludwig.

He should have noticed more the way Ludwig had started looking at him.

Small things.

In the mornings, after breakfast, when Timo was still sitting at the table and finishing his coffee, Berwald would pull himself to his feet and walk over to the sink and immerse his hands in the water to help Ludwig with the dishes.

Timo would twist in his chair, watch him with a raised brow, and break into a pleased smile.

In the afternoons, when Berwald and Timo sat out together at the picnic table, playing a game of cards, Berwald would wait until Timo was looking at him before he turned over to where Magnus and Lukas were cajoling Ludwig, and say, 'Ludwig, come play.'

Ludwig did, coming over with a smile that was almost that of disbelief, and Timo glanced over Berwald, and nodded his head in approval.

In the evenings, Berwald made sure that he offered the seat beside of him on the couch to Ludwig, and was very quick to offer his own rifles up to be cleaned by hands other than his own, no matter how uneasy it made him.

Timo glanced up from above his own guns, and leered away.

At night, whether they had been drinking or not, Berwald always made it a point to say 'goodnight' to Ludwig, if either one of them retired before the other.

Timo would look over at Ludwig and then at Berwald, and beam.

It really wasn't hard at all to get Timo to look at him like that, whenever Ludwig was around. Ludwig was truly a blessing. Lukas had been right; maybe it had not been an accident that they had encountered each other.

During every occasion, every circumstance, every word and every helping hand and every action, Ludwig just stood there, and stared at him.

A strange, barely visible ghost of a smile on his face. A tilted head and a high brow of curiosity. Something else, too, underneath.

Berwald should have noticed.

He still spoke to Ludwig and made an effort to be friendly even when Timo wasn't around, but the effort was considerably less enthusiastic, and much less verbal. Not that he didn't like talking to Ludwig, but they were both already pretty quiet by nature, and sometimes when he did speak, Ludwig looked at him with a strange expression. It was mortifying, a little, to realize that half the time Ludwig didn't even understand him when he spoke.

His accent was too thick.

Sometimes it took Ludwig a moment to respond to him, after thinking hard about what Berwald was trying to say.

That alone kept his tongue. Embarrassing.

He probably didn't say some words right at all, and Ludwig had to fill in blanks and guess at what he was attempting to communicate. He had to repeat himself frequently, after Ludwig would say, 'Huh? What was that?'

German still felt too strange coming from his own mouth.

At any rate, miscommunication aside, Ludwig had finally started to really settle in, although due to his friendliness or not he couldn't say, and his stance was nothing but relaxed around them.

Maybe it was time to move on.

It had been time for a while now. They were starting to become restless, or at least _he _was. Time to go out again.

This time, Ludwig would have to come along.

_How_? What could they do that would break him in easy?

After posing this question to Timo, it was decided that they needed to have a meeting, of sorts, about the subject.

They didn't involve Ludwig in the discussions. Didn't feel right. Sitting there and talking about what they would expose him to and make him do?

He didn't need to hear all of that.

The first meeting was, like so much else, all but bust.

No good ideas.

They carried on with daily life, and waited for the next opportunity to talk.

Ludwig, oblivious, walked around with Lukas as he often did, having no clue that Lukas was thinking about how they were going to drag him out into battle, even as they chatted together.

It had to happen sooner or later. Better to just go ahead and get it over with.

One cool night, as spring rain pounded the shingles atop the timber house, they all sat together, but nobody was talking about where they were going next. Just small talk.

A calm, friendly, warm night.

More of these and less war would have been welcome. Nothing better than sitting in a safe, warm house, far away from all of the sights and sounds of war. It was easy to forget that people were even dying at all. If only he could have abandoned the cause altogether, and just stayed up here in the mountains and never again pick up a gun.

Would've been nice.

He wasn't really sure that he could stop hating himself afterwards.

"_Hey_!"

He glanced up, to see Magnus and Ludwig snipping at each other over a bottle of alcohol.

"That's mine!"

Ludwig sent Magnus a quick glare, and a 'hmph'.

"Why don't you let someone else have a little, you jerk?"

Magnus was a jerk, alright. Calling it as it was. Ludwig was alright.

"I bought it."

"So?"

Magnus pursed his lips and heaved a sigh, ducking his head down between his knees in lightheadedness. Ludwig, triumphant, took the bottle and uncapped it, sitting on the floor and out of reach of Magnus.

It wasn't really so bothersome now, to see Ludwig and Magnus sitting beside of each other.

Ludwig was wearing Lukas' clothes now.

Berwald shifted, unsteadily.

Too much vodka.

Magnus drank way too much, and sometimes so did Timo, but he wasn't exactly a saint himself. He didn't drink as frequently as Magnus, but when he did drink, he drank much harder.

He'd been hitting sketchy bars back when he'd been fourteen. Maybe nothing to be proud of.

Hours passed, the moon was high, and everyone was drunk.

Getting there, at any rate.

Conversations became more active. So did Ludwig.

Vodka must have helped his nerves, too.

"So," Ludwig said, smiling a bit as the alcohol tinted his cheeks, "What did you guys do before the war?"

Ah. A trip down memory lane.

Magnus was the first to answer, tucked into Ludwig's side that he was, and it was with a sloppy grin and a little bit of pride that he said, "I worked on a farm!"

Ludwig only smiled, incredulously, and certainly he didn't believe it, as he said, "A farm or a distillery?"

Magnus was serious, and when he chortled and said, "I milked the cows!" Ludwig's eyes widened and he looked almost abashed at having been dismissive. Magnus saw, and waved a careless hand in the air. "Hey, it was good work! Butter and milk are a lot more expensive now, you know. Workin' there though, I started getting a little chubby. Maybe it's better I left, huh?"

Ludwig snorted.

Magnus' smile fell a bit, and he added, a little darkly, "Well...all that stuff goes to the soldiers now, for all it matters."

A short moment of tense silence, as Ludwig shifted awkwardly, before Lukas, ever oblivious, piped up, "I worked under a chemist. Mostly errands and papers, but I learned a lot just watching him."

Timo lifted his head, eyes bleary and smiling, and said, "Carpenter during the week, farmer on the weekends. Sometimes I sold kalja outside the saunas."

A pause. And suddenly, everyone was looking at _him_.

Ludwig's cool, lidded eyes observed him with interest.

Ah, hell.

Finally, after a deep breath, he raised his glass up and managed to grumble, lowly, "I had a fishing boat."

Ludwig tilted his head, and, knowing that his cheeks had flushed, Berwald put back his shot in an effort to appear unfazed.

A little embarrassing to say.

Not in front of Magnus, who knew manual labor, or Lukas, who understood barely scraping by, or Timo, who had worked harder than any of them for being so young, but in front of Ludwig, with his well-bred features and unintentionally haughty air and intelligent eyes, whose hands were large and smooth and quick.

Ludwig, who had obviously born a proud name back in Germany.

How he was thought about by others. His greatest fear.

"Well?" Timo suddenly asked, his voice a bit loud and slurred. "What about you Ludwig? What'd you do?"

Now everyone's eyes were on Ludwig, and for once, he almost _looked _like Berwald usually _felt_.

Uncertain and put on the spot and awkward.

He shifted his weight, and finally, looking over at Timo a bit guiltily, he finally managed a weak, "Well, I didn't really... That is, I—my brother took care of...well..." He trailed off, face red (and not from the vodka), and finally summed up with an embarrassed, "I mean, I've only ever been a soldier. My brother never let me work. I was going to go back to school, after the war."

"That sounds _nice_," Magnus drawled, blind to Ludwig's embarrassment, and Berwald sent him a testy look when Ludwig sank back into the couch, looking mortified.

He wasn't surprised. He'd assumed as much.

Ludwig hadn't grown up in the desolate countryside like all of them, where it was hard to make a living and hard to make end's meet, and sometimes hard to even have food, and he felt out of place now amongst them, hearing tales of hard labor when he'd never really known any.

Well, who could help where they were born? Not Ludwig's fault he'd been bred into a good family.

Lukas, keen on Ludwig's mood, leaned toward him and said, silkily, "Well, that's nothing to be ashamed of. I've always wanted to have a brother to look after, so I can see why he took such good care of you. I think we'd all like to have someone watching out for us like that."

Timo, falling back into his chair and hugging the bottle of vodka to his chest, muttered, "Hear, hear!"

Ludwig only reached up and ran a restless hand through his hair, trying his best to keep his face blank.

"Well," Timo said, when there was only silence, "Don't worry. We'll work you twice as hard, since you've missed out on so much."

Magnus and Timo dissolved into titters, and Ludwig only smiled, as he looked over at Berwald and twitched his head a bit.

What?

Unsure of exactly what Ludwig was trying to convey, if anything at all, Berwald only shrugged a restless shoulder and took another glass.

Ludwig quickly looked away.

Magnus finally stopped giggling, and slapped Ludwig on the back.

The conversation became much lighter as full-blown intoxication took hold. Reliving past experiences and dreaming about the things they'd do after the war.

Magnus reached out and slung an arm around Ludwig's shoulders, turning to him with bleary eyes and slurring, "So, Ludde! You're kinda handsome! Did you have a girl back home, huh?"

Magnus shook Ludwig with particular enthusiasm, no doubt spurred on by the deep flush of red that had spread across Ludwig's face.

Timo leaned forward, so drunk that he almost fell flat on his face, and joined in the teasing.

"I bet he did! Look, he's blushing!"

As they giggled, Ludwig reached up and tried to shove Magnus off, looking hassled and mortified as he cried, "N-no! I didn't!"

"Come on!" Magnus goaded, refusing to be shaken off, clinging to Ludwig like a horrible spider, "Why're ya so embarrassed? Huh? Come on, did you? Was she pretty? I bet she was! Just tell me! Why don't you wanna tell me?"

Ludwig finally huffed, and shoved irritably at Magnus' chest, looking for all the world as though he could have keeled over right there, hissing, "B-because! I didn't have one!"

Magnus' smile never faltered.

"How come?"

Ludwig sputtered something incomprehensible, at least to him, and his whole face had turned red now, as he stared down into his lap and sighed away.

They never really got a good answer out of him, and Ludwig effectively managed to divert the questions when he looked up at Berwald and asked, "What about you? No one waiting back home?"

Hardly.

Timo gave a strange, gasping laugh that he tried to turn into a cough.

"Yeah right!" Magnus drawled, before Berwald could even open his mouth. "Ha, that's a bachelor for life, right there."

Ludwig only smiled.

Berwald was too damn drunk to really even comprehend Magnus' words, let alone be mad.

He could barely see.

It felt late.

Ludwig sat there the entire night, cheeks red and smiling sloppily, and the whole time he merely listened to the conversations and drank some more.

Maybe it was the vodka, but Berwald was fairly certain that he felt eyes upon him. Every time he looked up, his vision was far too blurry to pinpoint anything.

He didn't remember much after that.

The next thing he knew, it was nearly noon, and he was on his back on his bed, still in his clothes and with a monster of a headache. Ludwig stood in the doorframe, looking a little unkempt and a little queasy, and held in his hands a cup of coffee.

"I knocked earlier," he said, as he came in and set the mug down on the end-table, "But you were sleepin' like a rock."

Feeling the nausea churning, he could only reach out blindly for his glasses, and try to keep himself from throwing up right there.

When he finally managed to sit upright, he expected Ludwig to turn and walk out.

He lingered there, and the look on his face was odd.

Finally, Berwald rasped, "What?"

Ludwig fell back a step towards the door, and said, simply, "Nothing!"

With that, he turned on his heel and left.

Not a minute too soon. As soon as the door clicked shut, Berwald pitched forward and grabbed the trashcan.

He was out of commission that day, nursing his hangover and not even going into the kitchen to eat. Just because _he _was didn't mean that the others were, and apparently Timo had decided to have a little fun at his expense.

The next morning, when he finally came crawling downstairs at Ludwig's call, he could immediately see the way that Timo was hiding a smile behind his napkin, and felt the creep of suspicion.

Couldn't leave these guys alone for even a day.

He ate in silence, as Timo and Magnus whispered to each other, and by the time it was noon again, what they were up to became apparent.

After lunch, Ludwig crept up behind him when he was heading for the door, and stopped him.

"Hey."

"Hm?"

Ludwig looked him up and down, and then said, "I just wanted to say thanks."

"For what?"

Ludwig smiled, pleasantly.

"For giving me your gun! I really like the German scope on it. Timo told me that it really meant a lot to you, so I just wanted to tell you that I promise I'll take really good care of it."

A silence.

..._what_?

His mouth dropped open, no sound came out, and the very first thought that crossed his mind was to pitch an absolute fit, because damn _right _that gun meant a lot to him! That gun had saved his ass on several occasions, and it had never failed him in anything, and—

"So, thanks."

And yet, seeing that smile on Ludwig's face, his goddamn politeness took over and he heard himself say, weakly, "Yeah... Yeah, sure. Welcome. Yeah."

It was said through clenched teeth and a stiff jaw, but Ludwig smiled all the same, and, with a nod of his head, turned and disappeared out the door.

Berwald stood there in an agitated shock, not sure of what to do. What could he do? Just walk up to Ludwig and say, 'oh, sorry, Timo was fuckin' with you, this gun is mine'? He couldn't do that.

That wasn't who he was. And Timo _knew _it.

It would have been easy to blame Magnus, but he felt Timo's hand upon this, for sure.

Ah, hell. Before he could figure out what to do with himself, the front door opened and Ludwig popped his head back in, and said, "Say! They want me to go try it out down by the woods. If you wanna come..."

"Sure," he grunted, automatically, and Ludwig's smile was wider than ever.

Even as he straightened his unbuttoned collar and followed Ludwig out into the cool, crisp spring air, he was bitching away in his head.

He was going to have to lay down some new rules.

Rule number five : don't touch Berwald's goddamn guns.

Rule number six : don't give away Berwald's goddamn guns.

Rule number seven : don't even _look _at Berwald's goddamn guns.

He couldn't be mad at Ludwig, who was bounding ahead through the young, bright grass with wide, eager strides. Wasn't his fault.

"There you are!" came a cry down by the forest's edge, and Berwald, over Ludwig's shoulder, could see the others waiting below, and Timo held in his hands Berwald's _goddamn _gun.

The smile on Timo's face was visible even from a distance.

Seeing that rifle in someone else's hands was exceedingly unpleasant. Left a very bitter taste in the back of his throat that not even the blue sky and green grass and bright sun could get rid of.

When they approached, it only got worse.

"Berwald!" Timo crooned, in a high-pitched deceptively pleasant voice, "It was so sweet of you to give him this one!"

Magnus' grin was so wide Berwald was surprised it fit on his fuckin' face.

Lukas, always oblivious, said, "Sure was. It suits him though. That was a good call."

...ah, goddammit.

Ludwig looked happy as a clam, however, and Berwald had neither the heart nor the will to ruin it for him, and finally ground out, "You don't say."

Timo drew back his arm and chucked the rifle straight at Ludwig's chest, and it took every ounce of restraint that Berwald possessed to keep his hands from flying up to cover his eyes and let out a loud gasp as his most prized possession was flying through the air like a damn toy.

Ludwig, for the good of everyone there, caught it in sure hands, and Berwald hissed out a short sigh of relief.

Timo spoke to Ludwig then, but his eyes were settled on Berwald (that smug _smile_!) the whole time.

"Well, let's test you out, then!"

"Right!" Ludwig said, his voice unusually clear and smooth in what was obviously excitement, and Berwald didn't have much of a choice but to just stand there, and watch.

Guess it was Ludwig's gun, now.

Shit.

Did Timo _really _have to give away his favorite? Was this some kind of _test_? Was Timo just that _bored_, since they hadn't gone out for months?

...maybe he shouldn't have hovered over Ludwig so much in front of Timo.

Too late now.

Anyway, the most important thing to focus on in this particular instant was the fact that Ludwig was giving his former rifle a very thorough looking over, and Timo was scurrying deep into the trees to place something up in the pine branches.

After squinting, Berwald could see it was a glass from the kitchen.

Ah. First his gun, and now his mugs.

"Can you see that, Ludwig?" came the muffled cry from within the trees.

"Yeah."

Apparently, that meant it wasn't far enough in, and Timo plucked it out and ran farther back. This time, it was no longer visible to any of them from where they stood.

"See it now?"

"Nope."

"Good."

The crunching of boots upon shed pine needles, and in a minute, Timo's blond head had popped back into the sun.

"All yours," he said, quite cheerily, and Ludwig only sent him a rather haughty lift of his chin.

Berwald wasn't exactly sold.

People said they could shoot all the time, but some really couldn't. The gun looked right at home in Ludwig's hands, sure, but that didn't necessarily mean he would be particularly useful. The rifles all looked just as good in Magnus' hands, too, but Magnus couldn't hit the broad side of a barn.

Probably why he liked the quicker guns.

Berwald wouldn't have been terribly disappointed if Ludwig missed, if only to spare a hapless mug.

Ludwig, now that the Gevär was firmly in his grasp, looked more confident and comfortable than he ever had out here. Standing straight up at his full height, no slumping or slouching, shoulders steady and braced and chin up, he looked ready to prove himself and eager to engage.

Lukas came creeping over silently to Berwald's side, and peered up at him from below.

A quiet whisper.

"Timo?"

"Yup."

"I imagined so."

Maybe Lukas wasn't as oblivious as he appeared to be.

Speaking of Timo, he was standing there off to the side, arms crossed above his chest and grinning away, glancing over at Berwald and raising up a brow like he'd never done anything wrong.

Crouching down on one knee, hands positioned perfectly and eagle eye in front of the scope, Ludwig moved the rifle back and forth in slow, careful movements, observing every detail and angle, looking very comfortable.

Getting used to the feel of a gun in his hands again.

"Careful!" Magnus teased, amicably, "Think about it too long and you're gonna miss."

"I don't _miss_," Ludwig threw back in a slow drawl, and Magnus only laughed, loudly.

"Sure you don't!"

A second of shifting and observing.

Magnus was trying to irritate Ludwig, just because he could.

"If you're afraid to fire it, just toss it here! I'll give it a go!"

"...I wish you'd be quiet."

"Why, am I messin' up your concentration? Don't try to blame bad aim on me if you miss—"

Bang.

A shatter from within the still forest. A hit.

Ludwig gave a short, stiff, "Hm!"

Well. Looked like Berwald's gun was going to be good to its new owner.

Ludwig only smiled, keeping his rifle in its position as he shifted his shoulders up and down. His confidence looked like it had gone through the roof. Like he'd found his place out here with just one bullet.

Maybe so.

A good shot was always a welcome addition. It helped to make them a reliable group, and everyone with different strengths.

Lukas, the master of cables and chemicals. Fearless and steady.

Timo, mathematical and extremely resourceful. Improvising and tough.

Ludwig, a good shot, and with mechanical abilities. Bold and calculating.

Himself, perhaps a better shot. The leader.

And Magnus?

Well. He couldn't exactly think of what Magnus was good at. Not really. Average mechanical talents, maybe, but that didn't make up for being a bad shot. Of course, if he had asked Timo, he would have been given a long list of Magnus' strengths and abilities. He was happier with only knowing what Magnus was bad at.

"Alright," Magnus finally said, clapping a hand on Ludwig's shoulder, "I give. You're a damn good shot."

For a horrible moment, that breathless look of confidence on Ludwig's face faded into something darker, and he stood up, pressing the butt of the rifle into the ground as he whispered, oddly, "Yeah. Good shot, all right. ...that's about _all_ I'm good at."

A rather dreary silence, as Magnus' face fell as much as Ludwig's, and they spared a look at each other. Two confident individuals who were, perhaps, not really all that confident in themselves at all.

"Well," came Magnus' false voice of casualness, "At least you're good at _somethin_'..."

Berwald felt a squirm of guilt.

"Hey!" Timo suddenly said, to break the gloomy mood, "Ludwig." He reached into his pocket and pulled out the deck of cards that they had no doubt been amusing themselves with earlier, and gave a little smile. "Ludwig, you think you're a good shot, huh? Here, why don't you really test yourself?"

With that, Timo dipped the cards into his hand and pulled one out of the stack, holding it up into the air between his thumb and index.

"Think you can hit this?"

Berwald barely managed to keep his mouth from dropping open in horror, and he very much expected Ludwig to say, sternly, 'No, you idiot, I don't, and I'm not gonna try!'

The look on Magnus' face made it obvious that he expected the same thing. Ludwig and Timo only stared at each other, communicating in a way that Berwald could not understand, and then Ludwig raised up the rifle and found the scope.

"Let's see."

Magnus beat Berwald to the punch, and sputtered, "Wha—_what_? Don't be stupid!"

Timo only smiled, and held the card up into the air.

"Don't worry! You heard him, didn't ya? He never misses."

Ludwig piped up, "Nope."

Lukas raised his hand up to his mouth, and tittered a little, his eyes glued to the card.

Berwald coulda just died. Couldn't he have come across some _normal_ fuckin' people when he had formed this whole thing? Would that have been too much to ask? Just some normal people?

The clicking of the rifle as Ludwig positioned the scope and put everything in place was far too loud in the quiet forest, and Berwald wondered if he was really going to let this happen. This might have been the part where he, as leader, was supposed to step forward and get in between them and say that this was far too reckless to attempt.

Ludwig already had the card in his sights, and Timo was not afraid, even a little.

"Keep your thumb down."

"Don't aim too low."

"I know what I'm doin'."

Timo wasn't afraid of much.

In fact, Berwald thought, a bit dazedly as Timo stood there with a smile and absolutely without worry, the only thing that Timo ever really seemed to fear was...

"A little to the left."

Timo moved his hand left without thought, grinning away.

"You're thinkin' a little too much about it. Hurry up!"

...those days of moping. Looks of perpetual disinterest and sluggishness and despondency.

Days when Magnus was gone. The only thing Timo feared was loss.

A shot.

Berwald jumped, not from the noise, but just from the fact that the gun had been aimed at Timo.

Silence.

Then Timo hissed, and drew his hand back, and for an awful moment Berwald knew that he had been hit, as he tucked his hand beneath his shirt and doubled over.

Ludwig's eyes widened in horror, and the Gevär fell to the ground.

Ludwig was bounding through the grass like a clumsy rabbit, leaping over roots and rocks and gasping, "Did I—! Oh! I'm so—! I didn't mean—"

Berwald was frozen in disbelief and a sickening dizziness. Magnus had turned as white as a sheet, and ran too.

Lukas just stood there, hands in his pockets and staring with a breathless smile.

Ludwig got there first, and when he grabbed up Timo's arm and wrenched it forward, there was no torrent of blood. No missing fingers. No bullet hole.

Just a narrow-eyed glance from Timo, who watched silently as Ludwig turned his hand over this way and that, searching for wounds and fretting so much that he was practically crying, sputtering incomprehensibly and panting for air.

A strange silence, as Ludwig tilted his head and his blubbering faded.

A moment of stillness. Then Timo dissolved into titters, and when he spoke again, his first words were, "I wish you could have seen the look on your _face_!"

With that, Timo reached into his coat and tossed the card onto the ground as he laughed away to the sky, and Magnus stopped short, the relief apparent on his face.

Ludwig stood rigid as a board, face pale and hands shaking at his sides.

Finally, he regained himself, and it was with a snarl of anger that he reached out and slapped Timo smartly on the side of the head.

"You—you jerk! I'd thought I'd blown your fuckin' _hand _off! You're lucky I missed, you...you—!"

Timo just cackled all the harder.

Magnus shook his head, wiping the cold sweat from his brow, and said, in a strained voice, "Let's not do that again! From now on, no guns pointed at each other, alright? And you!" Magnus imitated Ludwig with a smack to the back of Timo's pale-haired head. "Don't ever do that shit again! Next time, he might not miss and no one's gonna take you seriously!"

"I—I'm sorry!"

His giggles meant that he really wasn't.

As Magnus and Ludwig chided Timo for being so dumb and for making them worry, shoving him back and forth between them, Berwald could only slow the racing of his heart.

That had been all the adrenaline he'd needed for the week.

Leave it to Timo to pull off something like that just to mess with everyone.

Christ, they needed to get _out_. Timo was doing anything he could to get rid of his boredom.

Time to get going.

Slouching a bit, Berwald went over to the retrieve the rifle that Ludwig had tossed into the mud in a panic. As he knelt, he looked down to the ground and saw movement.

The card fluttered about the grass, rolling through the blades in the wind.

Ace of spades.

He watched it pass, and when it came close enough, he put his foot down atop of it and reached down to grab it. When he held it up before his face, he couldn't help but scoff.

Light streamed through the bullet hole in the center.

Ludwig hadn't missed.

He looked over his shoulder, saw them all still fussing, and tucked the card silently in his pocket. Maybe it would be a good idea to let Ludwig think he'd missed, if only to keep him from getting a little too sure of himself. Over-confidence was as bad as no confidence at all.

With that thought, he wiped the mud from the rifle and decided it was time for some more meetings.

Ludwig, determined to work on his aim after thinking he'd missed, was very easy to sneak behind in the following week, spending almost all of his time by the trees. Berwald only felt a little bad about it; making Ludwig think that he wasn't really good, after all, at the only thing he thought he was good at.

The others sat in the kitchen.

Gunshots from down below.

After days of quiet conversation, days of tossed ideas, it was Lukas who finally came up with a way to test Ludwig without the risk of pushing him too far or too fast.

It was in a similar fashion as to how he came to be here.

It was too soon to take Ludwig to either border, and there was scarcely anything to do in Sweden except sabotage the trains. And actually seeing a train full of German soldiers would have been far too much, so Lukas had suggested a compromise.

Rather, the compromising of the railroad tracks themselves. Take Ludwig out and show him how to light up a stick of dynamite. Ruin the track in a small spot. Delay a transport for days. Done. That was that.

Ludwig could do that, right? It wasn't actually hurting anyone, and it was a very simple first step. That was what they had all thought when they had agreed upon it, and not even two days had passed before they acted on it.

They left.

Ludwig, not knowing what to expect, sat in the backseat and stared out of the window as they drove, wringing his hands anxiously in his lap, barely listening as Lukas spoke to him quietly.

It was easy.

Berwald tried to stay optimistic.

It _had _to be easy, because if Ludwig couldn't do _this_, then there was no hope.

He wouldn't be able to stay.

Hours of driving.

Pulling into the flat field and stepping out into the high amber grass had been a little exciting, if only just to get out for a while.

Ludwig wasn't quite as enthusiastic. It took him a while to get out of the car, and when he did, he looked around at the vacant, uninhabited place, and said, simply, "What's this?"

Berwald and Timo shared a look, but didn't speak.

He wasn't exactly sure what to say that would really be of any comfort.

'It's alright, you're just breaking the tracks. No harm—well, unless the conductor doesn't see in time, then the train might flip over and a lot of guys might die, but other than that!'

Yeah, right.

Ludwig would understand the possibilities.

Had to be done.

Ludwig needed to know what living with them really meant. It wasn't just night of sitting in a cozy living room and drinking with friends.

"Come on," Lukas finally said, as he came up to Ludwig's side. "It's over here."

Tugging Ludwig along, Lukas led the way, and Berwald could only follow behind.

Timo hung back, and kept watch over the car.

The tracks were visible after a few minutes of pushing through weeds and thorns, and it was obvious by the time they got there that Ludwig was already annoyed, as he picked bristles and briars from the fabric of his pants.

Ludwig had been in such a good mood days before.

_Had _to be done.

They were standing before the tracks.

Ludwig stared down at them, and stuck his hands in his pockets.

Lukas reached into his own pockets, and pulled out two sticks of dynamite. One for each track.

Ludwig saw the flash of red and the fuse, and his eyes narrowed so much that they were barely slits.

"What? You're gonna blow it up?"

"No," Lukas said, rather primly, as he positioned the sticks on either side. "You are."

A silence.

Ludwig started shuffling, and the agitation on his face had given way to anxiety.

"Here."

Lukas reached forward, and stuck the box of matches in Ludwig's palm.

Lukas always carried matches. Never lighters.

He liked lighting them up.

"Don't worry!" Lukas added, when Ludwig's shoulders slumped and his head dropped. "I checked out all the schedules. There aren't any passenger trains coming through here. Just one transport. You won't be hurting anyone. Just slowing things down."

Berwald watched from behind like a sentinel, and kept a close eye on Ludwig's movements and expressions.

"What's it matter?" Ludwig finally grumbled, clenching the matchbook in his palm. "If you slow it down, what's it matter? They're still gonna get there later on."

"It matters. It reminds them that not everyone sits back and takes it. That's enough."

Ludwig didn't respond, and instead looked back over his shoulder, catching Berwald's eye.

The look of pleading on his face was obvious.

He didn't want to force this upon Ludwig, of course he didn't, but what else could he do? Life was harsh. A lesson that needed to be learned quickly.

He nodded his head.

Ludwig's brow fell, and he turned back to the tracks morosely.

Berwald heard the strike of a match, and waited.

Ludwig just _stood _there. He didn't move.

The smell of sulfur rose above the smell of grass.

Striking up that match was probably one of the hardest things he'd ever done in his life, and now, he didn't move.

Having second thoughts.

He stood there frozen for so long that the match burnt out.

Then another.

Lukas looked back and met Berwald's gaze with a frown of concern. For a moment, Berwald thought they'd made a mistake.

Maybe Ludwig wasn't ready.

Ludwig's head was tilted to the side as he stared, and they could hear him muttering under his breath.

Moments of uncertainty.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Ludwig shook his head, heaved a great sigh, and struck up another match.

This time, he actually leaned down.

The hiss of the fuse lighting up was alarmingly loud in the quiet field, and when the second was lit, Lukas reached forward with the speed of a viper and snatched Ludwig's sleeve, yanking him back and forcing him to run back to a safe distance.

The explosion that ensued, although by no means as loud or bright as the last one had been, was still enough to replace Berwald's hearing with a shrill whistle for a few seconds.

Behind him, Ludwig stared back at the smoke billowing up, eyes wide and looking simultaneously awed and horrified as frightened birds fled from all over the field, casting shadows above them.

Ludwig couldn't seem to look away. _He'd _done that. He'd lit the fuse.

Berwald was relieved.

For a minute there, he had thought Ludwig was gonna choke.

A good outcome.

"That wasn't so hard, was it?" Lukas said, as he placed his hands on his hips and watched Ludwig with a careful eye.

Ludwig wasn't stupid, and he only turned to look at them with a stern glare, and quickly retorted, "Yeah, but this isn't all you do, is it?"

Berwald stood still, and could only purse his lips. Of course it wasn't.

Ludwig wasn't ready for much else.

He looked down.

Ludwig's hands were shaking.

His mood didn't really improve much after that, not speaking a word on the whole ride back, not even to Lukas.

Ludwig was irritable now, but let him sleep on it. He'd feel differently in the morning. He'd get over it.

The ride passed in silence, and when they returned home, Magnus bounded up to the door and cried, "How'd it go? Good?"

No answer.

Ludwig only sat down on a chair on the porch, and turned his eyes out to the setting sun.

Timo, always tactful, ushered Magnus back inside and prevented him from agitating Ludwig any further.

They had coffee, and conversed lowly in the dimming light.

Ludwig never came inside.

Finally, when the sun was gone and crickets were chirping, Berwald said to Lukas, "Aren't you gonna go collect him?"

Lukas rested his chin in his palm, and pushed out his lips thoughtfully. After a hesitation, he finally turned to Timo, and the odd, knowing look that they shared was a little unnerving.

Lukas turned back to him, and said, "Nah. Why don't you go talk to him? You're the leader, aren't you? This is your territory."

Leader. Right.

The only 'leading' he was doing was letting others use his 'leadership' to their own advantages. Timo and Lukas seemed to have a way of twisting his authority around in exceedingly manipulative ways.

Hell.

Suppressing a sigh, he grabbed the table and pushed back his chair, pulling himself to his feet and tugging at his collar.

He wasn't really good at this stuff. What could he say? He hesitated at the door, hands in his pockets and staring down at his boots as he tried to think about what words he could possibly offer.

He couldn't really think of any. Looked like he was winging it.

With a deep breath, he reached out and pulled open the door, and stepped out into the night.

Ludwig sat there in the same spot, hands in his lap as he stared out into the mountains.

The moon was pretty high. The hour was already late.

Settling himself down into the chair beside of Ludwig's, he decided that it was better just to stay silent, and let Ludwig say the first word whenever he was ready.

The sounds of the forest were comforting.

Ludwig sat still, even as Berwald tossed up his boots on the railing and rested his hands behind his head, making it obvious that he didn't plan on going anywhere until a conversation took place.

Ludwig was extremely patient, but so was he.

In the end, it was Ludwig who broke first, after maybe an hour.

"Any coffee left?"

"Yuh. Want some?"

"Sure."

He rose back up, and went back into the house.

The others had gone off into their rooms. He looked at the clock.

Almost midnight.

He got the requested coffee, now lukewarm, and went back out.

Ludwig hadn't moved.

"Here."

"Thanks."

Ludwig took a sip as he sat back down, and then sent him a strange look.

"It's cold."

"Sorry."

A long, if not comfortable silence, and Berwald watched as Ludwig stretched out his legs and shifted his weight.

Getting a little restless.

Well. May as well.

Putting his hands back behind his head, Berwald glanced at Ludwig from the corner of his eye, and asked, casually, "Think you can do it?"

Ludwig didn't answer him at first, keeping his eyes firmly upon the mountains as the stars came out from behind the clouds whenever they parted.

Above the lolling breeze and the fluttering of leaves, he could hear the river down between the mountains. Upstairs, the low, slow rumble that was Magnus snoring.

Finally, just when Berwald thought that Ludwig was going to ignore the question altogether, he spoke up.

His deep voice was scarcely audible above the wind.

"Why do you go on?"

"Eh?"

Ludwig's bright eyes, silver in the moonlight, were suddenly locked onto his own as he leaned forward, hands clasped together within his lap.

"You. I don't get you. You don't have to fight. You don't have to do anything. Why don't you just...you know. Stay home? Why don't you just wanna be normal? What's wrong with bein' a civilian?"

"Nothing," he said, as he matched Ludwig's stare. "Just not for me."

"Why?"

It took him a moment to gather up his thoughts.

Speaking in his native tongue was hard enough. Trying to fumble around thoughts in clumsy German was considerably harder.

Finally, he managed a low, "When the war's over, men are gonna go back home and tell their families all they did. Allies, Axis, doesn't matter. They all did something. If I just sat here 'n let things happen outside, what could I ever tell anyone? That I didn't haveta fight, so I didn't?"

"Plenty of men don't fight. Who would ever ask you? You're not obligated."

"No. But I wanna help. Just 'cause we're neutral doesn't mean we should be."

Ludwig eyed him for a second, and then snorted.

"When it's over, who are you gonna tell about it?"

"No one."

"So why bother?"

A strong breeze picked up, bringing with it the smell of pine.

"'Cause it's the right to do. I think."

Ludwig only gave a short, 'hm'.

"Well, what about you? You're a soldier, aren't ya? How come? Why join up if ya didn't wanna fight?"

A valid question, and Ludwig, for a second, looked almost abashed.

"I—I only did it because my brother's a soldier. I wanted... Well, I guess I wanted him to be proud of me. He always wanted me to be like him. I just never was." Ludwig shook his head, and scoffed. "Isn't that a dumb reason to join an army? It seemed like a good idea before, but hearing myself say it now... Sounds kinda stupid."

Maybe it was.

Berwald wasn't worried about that. He felt _shamed_, all of a sudden.

Forcing Ludwig's hand so hard all the time, and now he understood Ludwig's reluctances much better.

His brother was a soldier, too. It must have been horrifying, even more than defecting, to imagine that you might unwittingly cause harm to your own flesh and blood by standing on the other side. Ludwig's brother was part of the war machine. No wonder he had been so moody. Probably thinkin' about his own brother on a train somewhere.

"When I said ya had to fight," he finally began, shifting his weight awkwardly as Ludwig watched him, "What I meant was... Well. I mean, I guess—that is, if you don't want to, I won't force ya. If you want to go somewhere else, I won't stop it. Whatever ya wanna do."

Immediately, Ludwig said, "I'll stay. You've helped me out a lot. I can help you guys, too. Anyway, my brother's in France. We won't ever...see him."

Just like that, Ludwig's face fell.

Berwald understood.

Ludwig had given up his former life the second he had gripped the railing of the train in his hands. He had known damn well in that instant that he would most likely never see his brother again.

Not in this life.

He had resigned himself to the fact that his brother was only a memory. The moment Ludwig's feet had hit Swedish ground, he had been branded a traitor and a coward. He couldn't ever go back to Germany and preserve the honor of his family name, and if his brother was as proud a soldier as Ludwig had hinted, then a welcome home was out of the question.

Ludwig would probably get shot if he went home, assuming his brother even survived the war.

Even so, seeing that look of hopelessness and resignation on Ludwig's face was a little hard to swallow, so he tried to comfort a little and say, "Well... Maybe that's for the best. Don't worry. We won't ever go down to France."

"Ha."

A comfortable, if not a little sad, silence, as the moon rose steadily higher.

The light in Lukas' room went out. Now that everyone was finally asleep, Ludwig turned to him, and asked him a rather blunt question that had no doubt been on his mind for while.

"Have you ever killed anyone, Berwald?"

Berwald opened his mouth, and quickly lost his voice, because the answer should have been obvious to Ludwig, who had been on that train.

Ludwig turned to him, and quickly elaborated.

"I mean personally. Face to face. Have you ever killed anyone?"

He shifted his weight as the heaviness crept up into his chest.

"...yes."

Ludwig looked him up and down, and turned his eyes back to the forest.

"All of them, too?"

All of them? The others? Yeah.

All of them.

He'd seen it himself sometimes. Sometimes he'd heard about it.

Lukas had killed soldiers in Norway, and not always via an explosion. When Lukas had come back that time, a brand new Magnus in tow, he had been covered in the blood of a guard he had shot in the back of the head. Although Lukas preferred to wreak havoc from a safe distance, he always carried a gun, and it wasn't unused. Honest Lukas frequently stated that his biggest regret in life was when he had, in a moment of anger, shot and killed an occupying German soldier that was merely walking down the street; a kid, who'd barely even known how to work his gun. Lukas had fled Norway right after, although if from the Germans or a guilty conscience was left to be said. At any rate, Lukas had learned from that brash mistake, and kept his emotions in check well now. Berwald wondered if he hovered over Ludwig so much because he saw in him the young soldier he had assassinated.

Timo, when Berwald had first met him out there in the forests of Finland, had already had a list of nameless Red Army soldiers under his belt. Berwald had seen him once, shoving a surrendering soldier down into the dirt in a rage and shooting him before he could even open his mouth. He'd regretted it later, a little, but that hadn't stopped him from carrying on and adding on to the list. Timo had killed more than any of them combined, but only because he frequently traveled in small groups with other Finnish resistance members and was therefore much more likely to encounter hostility and life-threatening circumstances. Somehow, Timo still smiled. Drank too much sometimes, though.

Magnus had only killed once. Fleeing Denmark the first time, he'd been grabbed not by a German, but by a Danish policeman. In the grapple that had ensued, somehow Magnus had pulled out a short pocketknife (that he had _never _intended to use to hurt anyone) and plunged it straight into the officer's heart. And Berwald had heard him mutter to Lukas one night in a drunken stupor, 'And I don't ever wanna do it again'. And he had meant it; whenever Magnus went out with them, he never shot his gun, and if he did, he never aimed to kill. Strange, that the most belligerent and aggressive of the group was somehow the most naïve and innocent. That Magnus really thought he could slink by in and out of Denmark and never have to _kill _anyone. That Magnus thought he could pass the duration of war and keep his hands clean of more blood. Maybe because his murder had been so much more personal and intimate. They'd all shot those they'd killed. To use a knife and hold someone down? Different. That was why Magnus had told _him _to shoot Ludwig back then, but had never made an effort to do it himself. Couldn't.

That train aside, he'd killed too. Mostly Reds, out with Timo. One German, when they had come across Lukas. Always through the scope of a rifle. Always seeing his victim in alarmingly vivid detail before he pulled the trigger. Able to see their faces and the color of their eyes and hair and the emotions that passed. The curse of the sniper; having to get a good, long look at the man you were about to murder.

One more.

What he hadn't told anyone, not _anyone_, was that he had killed before this war had even started.

Stupid.

A drunken night out in a bar in some nameless little place as he had been wandering about, looking for a place to settle down after the death of his grandmother. Seventeen and reckless and having no sense of the consequences of his actions, he'd gotten into an argument with some other patron over something insignificant and ridiculous (couldn't even remember now what it had been) and when the fight had turned physical, he'd gone too far. He didn't realize at the time, as he had aimed his boot at the man's head, that he had kicked him that _hard_. He hadn't meant to kick him that hard. Well, anyway, the poor son of a bitch had died, and he'd just left in the morning, disappearing into the mists like the ghost of a traveler that he was. Hadn't even known the man's name.

For the best.

They had all killed.

But that didn't mean they were _bad_.

"Yes."

...right?

Mistakes were made. Thoughtless moments of anger. Sins.

Ludwig looked down at his clasped hands, and only said, "Mm."

Berwald eyed him, and finally asked, "Have you?"

"...yeah."

"Well," Berwald began, "You're a soldier. Of course ya have. It's a time of war."

Ludwig leaned back in his chair, and for a moment, Berwald could see the passing of shadows across his face.

Then he snorted, and shook his head, muttering lowly, "Ha. Yeah. That's a good excuse, right?"

An excuse? No. There was never an excuse for murder.

Never.

It happened all the same.

"Everyone'll forgive you, after. What else can ya do in a war?"

With that, Ludwig looked over, and their eyes met in a moment of intensity.

An owl hooted away in the swaying trees. The look on Ludwig's face was indescribable.

So was the feeling his next statement brought out.

"Jump."

Unsure of what to say, and knowing that he probably shouldn't even bother, Berwald only gave a short, half-hearted scoff, and fell back in his chair.

Jump.

There was that guilt again.

After half an hour or so of silence, Ludwig spoke again.

His voice was strange.

"Say."

"Hm?"

"War started in '39."

"Yeah?"

A low, scratchy whisper.

"I killed someone in '38."

The first instinct was to whip his head over and stare in disbelief, but he shoved that aside and kept his eyes firmly ahead, out of respect and perhaps unease.

What could he say to that? Ludwig was more complex by the day.

Sometimes, maybe it was best just to be honest, and get a little off your chest. Ludwig was confiding, slowly but surely. One step at a time.

Ludwig's voice had lowered even more; a morose, dreary rumble.

"No more excuses, huh?"

Maybe it was his need to confide in someone too that made him look up at the moon, and say, "Mm. ...I killed someone in '28. No war then either, was there?"

Ludwig gave a strange scoff that reverberated through his chest, and only said, "No. Guess there wasn't."

They didn't speak anymore.

It was strange, how that one, simple declaration seemed to take a lifetime of weight from his shoulders. How words could alleviate years and years of self-hatred and uncertainty, if only just a little.

He sat out there with Ludwig that night, until the moon was high up in the sky, and watched the pines in the forest swaying back and forth in the breeze. Ludwig didn't say a word, and neither did Berwald.

Didn't really need to.

That was the thing that Berwald found he liked best about Ludwig.

That he could sit there and just be good company without endless prattling. That he could communicate effectively with only looks and subtle gestures. He didn't feel like he was being overshadowed when he sat next to Ludwig. He didn't feel inadequate or clumsy.

Because Ludwig was awkward and quiet, too. Good on his nerves, as well as his self-confidence.

After that night, he found that he did everything for Ludwig that he had done before only to impress Timo just _because_. Whether Timo was around to see or not.

Something had clicked between them.

Because Ludwig could understand him. He could understand Ludwig.

Maybe not always verbally, but in other ways.

He would watch Ludwig's back, and in return Ludwig would watch his.

Let Fenrir come.

It was easier not to fear the great wolf outside, now that he had acquired a wolf of his own.

He hoped that Ludwig would stay.


	9. I Still Miss Someone

**A/N **: **AHEM, AHEM**. For those of you who read **Acceleration Waltz**, guess what? **OrangePlum** is turning it into a comic book! GO LOOK! : accelerationwaltz -dot- tumblr .com. It's so AWESOME! ;_; Freakin' tears, man. Tears.

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 9<strong>

**I Still Miss Someone**

Flowers.

Everywhere.

Spring was on high, the forests had burst into life, and it was actually a little surprising that this quiet, snowy little mountain town could really come alive in such a colorful way. The fragile silence of snowy forests and still mountains had been broken.

Funny.

When Ludwig had been imagining Sweden before, his head had been full of snow, snow, and some more snow. Frozen lakes and the northern lights and reindeer. People sitting up bundled in coats on top of ice and making holes with axes.

Spring here seemed almost exactly the same as spring back home. Maybe a little cooler.

The variety of weeds and flowers was quite stunning. So were the sounds the forests made now. Never still. Never quiet. He could rarely step outside without startling deer that were standing on the edge of the trees. It had been beautiful before, a snowy little mountain town surrounded by endless pines, but now it had become endearing.

The highest mountain peaks were still capped with snow, but below everything was vibrant green.

A great place to live.

A little town like this was where he had always dreamed he'd settle down.

...maybe not in these circumstances.

Well, who ever said that life always went according to plan? So far, everything was working out alright. Not _normally_, sure, but alright.

It was strange to be with a group of dangerous, unknown men. It was unnerving to share his bed with a stranger. It was sad to wake up and not see anyone he really knew. It was disappointing to pick up a phone in a mindless moment of excitement, and then remember that he had no one to call. It was disheartening to go outside and see none of the grand old buildings that he had grown up with.

That being said, it was better.

It was better than being with a group of dangerous men that called themselves family friends. It was better than sleeping in an empty bed and covering his head with a pillow to block out gunfire. It was better than waking up and seeing people that he never wanted to have to see again. It was better than picking up the phone and hearing haughty voices that tried to incite fear. It was better than going outside and seeing those grand old buildings bathed in flags and signs of something he did not believe in.

It was better.

He'd accept this melancholy sense of not belonging over all of that.

Not belonging.

He hadn't really belonged back home. He didn't really belong here. He'd almost gotten used to being peerless and an outcast. Sometimes, it didn't really feel like he'd ever belong _anywhere_.

If he hadn't fit in in his own house, there what was really out there for him?

Gilbert had expected so _much _of him. Gilbert had wanted Ludwig to be just like him. It hadn't happened like that. He and Gilbert were too different. He _loved _Gilbert. He just couldn't _be _him. Sorry about it.

But these men, these odd men, they expected a lot of him too, perhaps.

Just like with Gilbert, he wasn't really sure if he would be able to live up to it. But, just like with Gilbert, he would give it a try, and if it didn't turn out well, then that was just too bad.

He wouldn't push himself out of his comfort zone to impress others. He'd done enough of that. Far too much. He'd done terrible things so that others would think highly of him.

He'd learned his lesson.

These men knew nothing about him. Not a thing. He was grateful for that.

A new start.

That alone kept his mood from slipping down into complete depression. Something he'd always had a problem with. Sometimes back home, out of the blue, he'd just sit up on his bed and bury his face in his arms and struggle not to cry, and _why _he never really could say. Sometimes he'd laugh along with Gilbert in the living room, and the second that Gilbert left the laughter died and he would stare off into space, feeling heavy and lethargic and sad.

Little things set him off, in the right instance.

A bad mark in school. Weather that was too hot. Cleaning the floor and then Gilbert spilling a glass. Leaves falling in autumn. Passing a cemetery. Hearing church bells in the distance.

Simple things.

It came and went, almost at random.

Gilbert teased him sometimes, when he caught him with that gloomy look on his face, and said that he was as moody as a girl. Gilbert had usually been able to cheer him up, in the end. If not, he handled it. He'd always been able to handle it. It never got out of control. He promised himself he'd never be like those people that stood out on the edge of the bridge, and then let go.

It had never gotten that bad. Even _then_.

That was all behind him now, and here? So far, so good.

The stress was pretty much gone out here. This place was a reprieve, not only from war, but from his own mind.

He liked it out here.

Springtime here was pretty. Flowers all over the place, and not just outside.

Inside, too.

The house had almost become a maze, like some kind of saccharine, sweet-smelling, brightly-colored obstacle course. It was hard to turn his head without coming face to face with flowers. He couldn't walk down the hall without brushing up against flowers. He couldn't open a door without being assaulted with more goddamn flowers.

There were worse things, he supposed.

Maybe Berwald did not quite agree.

In the morning, Berwald came crawling out of his room, rubbing blearily at his eyes, and when he looked around and saw that he was surrounded on either side by hastily-made bouquets, he furrowed his brow and wrinkled his nose and stomped off down the stairs. When Berwald came back in from the outdoors, dripping with sweat after working, he stopped in front of the door and looked around at the flowers set up in every corner, and would shake his head and wander off into the kitchen. And the kitchen brought no relief—there were flowers on the counters and on the table and even in the corner of the room.

Ludwig was not entirely certain if Berwald just didn't like flowers, or if Berwald just really didn't like Magnus.

Considering that it was Magnus that had set up all of these flowers, Ludwig was fairly certain that it was the latter.

Actually, he was positive. Berwald made it clear himself.

And he could only stand here now and smile to himself as Berwald stood still in the hall, staring down at a bouquet of flowers that had been stuffed into an old boot and muttering irritably under his breath, "_Danes_."

Oh, yeah. Berwald just hated Magnus.

Now that it was spring outside and flowers were readily available, Magnus had a limitless supply and was quick to replenish one bouquet when it dried out, and Ludwig could only assume that Magnus had grown up in an environment where home simply wasn't _home _without a grotesque amount of flowers.

Cute. It made the already quaint house all the more quaint. Magnus would have made a great decorator. If nothing else worked out for him.

At any rate, too many flowers aside, the warmer air and the green grass made it pretty hard to stay irritated at just about anything.

It was hard to focus on gloomy thoughts when Timo was running around outside like a hyper child, getting out months and months of pent-up energy, Magnus trailing behind him like a dog. It was hard to remember how miserable life had been not so long ago, when the sun went down and Lukas and Berwald sat around a little fire, muttering to each other lowly, their voices a pleasant garble amidst the roaring of the flame.

They grew on him more and more every day.

Before he knew it, he had woken up one morning and really couldn't imagine going on out here without them.

Gilbert's over-protectiveness and sheltering had shielded him from the world for most of his life, and because of it he wasn't really sure of _how _to go out on his own and start a new life. Gilbert had done everything for him.

He didn't really even know where to start. Better to stay put.

He'd never really had any friends. Not even in school. This was something new. It was unusual to have people with him, and not just shaking his hand after they were done interacting with Gilbert.

Friends.

Not only had they taken him in, sheltering and clothing and feeding, they had attempted to extend friendship and kindness, which he had not really expected. Of course they had a price for it, sure, but maybe it would all be worth it in the end. Maybe what they offered him was more than what they asked.

Compromising the railroad track really hadn't been all that difficult, when he thought about it the next day, and actually, it somehow made him feel a little better about himself.

He was a German. Not a Nazi. The only interest he had in this war was of getting the old Germany back. Let the tracks burn. Hell—he was already a goddamn traitor, a coward, a defector, a shame, so why not at least earn the name a little bit? Why not stay with this group? He liked them.

And they must have liked _him_.

Maybe he wasn't exactly an expert on human emotions, and maybe he was socially inept, but he was sure of it.

They _had _to have liked him. Why would they do such things, if they didn't like him? Even someone as awkward as himself couldn't misread something so terribly, could he?

Impossible. There was no way.

Berwald was quiet and at times unreadable and sometimes a little _odd_, but surely Ludwig wasn't so offbeat that he was mistaking Berwald's actions.

They couldn't have been doing all that just to woo him to their side. They couldn't have been acting so friendly just so that he would help them out.

Or, at any rate, he _hoped _not, because he liked _them_.

He'd never had friends before. Not one in his entire life.

Maybe he was looking at everything the wrong way. They probably just wanted him to open his mouth and spill Wehrmacht secrets that he didn't even know. They probably just wanted him to rely on them so that he would do whatever they wanted him to.

Honestly? Maybe it was working a little.

Judging sincerity had never really been his strong point, and Gilbert had told him on several occasions (in an extremely condescending way, of course) that he had to keep such a good eye on Ludwig because he was easily put off guard and easily roped in and far too quick to trust.

Well, he hadn't ever really considered those to be _terrible _qualities. He couldn't ever hold a grudge, sure, and maybe he was a little too nice when the time wasn't right, but was that really such a bad thing? Did he have to pass the rest of his life thinking the worst of everyone and never trusting _anyone_? Gilbert was really the reason he'd never had any friends. Gilbert was the reason he came across as unapproachable and a little unfriendly.

Why people sometimes were afraid of him.

So many years of Gilbert's warnings in his ears made it hard to smile at strangers. Kinda hard to approach people when Gilbert spend most of his time telling him that he shouldn't, because they might turn on him one day.

Of course, Gilbert spent all day looking for friends and talking to everyone.

Huh.

Maybe that was okay, since Gilbert, so bold and so aggressive, was quick to put all new friends in line and tell them what was what in the relationship.

He couldn't ever do that.

That was why it was so important now that these men _liked _him, if he was going to be staying with them. Because he wanted to call them 'friends', and how could he do that if they were only using him for their own gain? That didn't seem to be who they were, but what did _he _know? He'd let the wrong people use him for their own gain before.

Oh, Christ, this shit made his head hurt.

He just wanted to trust them and move on and have people around him that made him _happy_. Was that so much?

"Hey, you feelin' alright? You look like you just fell down the mountain."

Raising his head from his palm, he looked over to the side, where Magnus was strutting over, hands in his pockets and looking quite cheerful.

"Headache," he replied, simply, and Magnus just smiled.

"Ah," came the quirky response, "Drink too much last night?"

"Maybe you don't recall, since you were the one passed out on the rug, but I didn't drink at all last night."

Magnus waved off his jab with an errant hand, and never stopped smiling.

"Ah, well, who remembers it all? Say, why don't you come into town with me? We'll pick you up some medicine. I don't think there's any left."

That was probably true. Magnus went through aspirin by the bottle.

"Maybe you should lay off the Jäger."

Magnus waved that off, too.

"Yeah, yeah. Come on. Come with me."

Pulling himself up to his feet, Ludwig did.

Outside, the day was bright and cool, and there was no longer any need for coats.

The thin, long-sleeved, button-up shirts that they wore were sufficient. His Wehrmacht-issued boots were hidden beneath loose pants. Freshly bathed, hair clean and gleaming, shaved and groomed, in loose, cool clothing that let in the spring breeze, he quickly forgot his headache as he walked at Magnus' side down the steps of the porch.

He felt _great_.

It had a been long time since he'd felt so good.

As they stepped down into the drive, their eyes were drawn over to the yard, where Lukas and Timo were sitting together having a conversation over a deck of cards. Berwald sat there with them, but was not playing.

For a second, Ludwig could see that Magnus' smile dropped.

Timo and Lukas, with their backs to the house, did not see them. Berwald did, and the way he and Magnus locked gazes was almost mechanical. Even Ludwig could feel the electricity. It wasn't a good spark, either. More like the churning of static in the dark storm clouds before a bolt of lightening crashed down.

Magnus raised his brow, wrinkled his nose, lifted his chin and carried on with his walk.

Berwald, no longer held in Magnus' eyes, turned his own over to Ludwig. Ludwig liked to think that his lowered shoulders and higher brow and friendlier eyes were because Berwald _liked _him, not because Berwald did not see him as a threat.

He liked to think that.

He smiled as Berwald's eyes bored into his own, and he regretted that he did not have the chance to see if Berwald returned it; Magnus grabbed the hem of his sleeve, and pulled him along.

A little prick of disappointment that he couldn't really place, but it was gone as quick as it had come, and the smell and sight of the forest as they walked down the long path were enough to effectively distract him.

He loved this town.

He liked the way the little houses stuck up in sometimes random places high up on the mountains. The way chimney smoke floated up above the trees. He liked the way the dirt path turned into cobbled streets. He liked the way the tiny downtown buildings looked, weathered and not stuck close together.

Every time he walked out into this little place, it became all the more endearing, and he understood a little better why they _fought_.

To protect little places like this. To keep these people safe.

They offered their lives, so meaningless when the vast numbers of men and the overwhelming scope of it all were considered, so that there would be a chance, however small, that these people would never know war.

They didn't have to fight, but they did anyway.

He looked over at Magnus, tall and a little unkempt, golden hair lit up by the sun and blowing back in the wind, a shadow of stubble on his cheeks, walking so casually with his hands tucked in his pockets and the smile always on his face, and couldn't help but feel a little useless.

Magnus had run too, but he had taken up arms the second he had crossed the border. Lukas, too. Timo offered his life in the miniscule chance that it might help Finland be free.

And Berwald...

Well.

Berwald had never been in danger, had never been obligated or pressured, had never known war, but he was putting himself into the line of fire merely because he thought it was the right thing to do. Fighting for ideals, not country.

Being around them had a strange, conflicting effect :

On one hand, it made him feel like a child. Abandoning his uniform so easily to jump out into neutral lands so he would not have to fight, and yet these men had come to neutral lands only for a safe place to sleep, going back out willingly into danger without even hesitating.

On the other hand, they made him feel somehow _thrilled_. Seeing them, so fearless and passionate, it made him remember when he had been little and had looked up at Gilbert in his glossy uniform and had been so excited, and it made him remember the very first day he had put on his own uniform, and how _proud _he had been.

Memories of good times. Before everything had gone wrong.

He cherished those memories.

Being around these men made him remember that old desire to matter, one way or another.

Maybe it _was_ the right thing to do. If he wanted that old Germany back, maybe he'd have to earn it.

Magnus, perhaps sensing his sudden melancholy, looked over at him, and reached out with the speed of a cat to grab him around the shoulders and pull him in.

A friendly, reassuring squeeze.

"You think too much," he said, as he clutched Ludwig up to his side and continued walking along the empty path, the bright sun ahead making him squint and lighting up what little of his irises were visible a vivid gold.

Ludwig only snorted, but made no effort to pull away. Because Gilbert wasn't here to cheer him up.

Magnus did that now.

"You don't think _enough_," was his response, and Magnus just laughed, his clear, loud voice ringing out over the wind.

"Yeah, I've been told that before."

"I imagine so."

The forest turned into field, and from there, into buildings. The church was visible in the distance. The smell of a bakery. The dirt beneath his boots turned into stone.

Walking around town made him feel as if he was normal. Just another man, going off on errands. As long as he didn't really talk, no one looked at him twice. And, Magnus had said, Swedes were so quiet that he wouldn't be weird if he just pointed at things that he wanted and nodded, since that was what most of them did anyway.

Fine with him.

They walked at a slow, casual pace. Small talk as they trudged through the streets.

They kept their voices low and soft, hard for Magnus, so that the locals wouldn't hear them speaking that South Jutland dialect, which could have been easily mistaken by Swedes for German (how _excited _Magnus had been when he had burst into that dialect one morning without thinking about it only to discover that Ludwig had understood him—fit to cry he had been, and now that was all he spoke when they were alone).

"So, Ludde, you likin' it here, so far?"

"...I wish you'd stop calling me that."

Magnus gave him a slanted leer.

"How come? You're in Sweden, aren't ya? I'm just tryin' to integrate ya a little bit."

He was going to open his mouth and say, 'smartass!', but he didn't, because he was distracted by the thought that if Magnus really _was _trying to integrate him, then that must have meant that he _liked _him.

Right?

Right.

He followed wherever Magnus led him, into every little building that they passed.

Half of the time, it seemed, Magnus didn't even buy anything. He just stopped in to be nosy and look around, and try to chat up the locals. Most of them seemed to know he was coming, and quickly made escapes out of backdoors or sidestepped when he was distracted with someone else.

Poor Magnus. These silent Swedes were just no match for his talkative and amicable personality. Whenever Magnus came pushing through a door, the store seemed to clear out.

Ludwig stood back in the corner as they walked into a little building that seemed to be used as a general store. Magnus searched through the shelves, grabbed up some bottles of aspirin, walked towards the counter, and then, as an afterthought, he backtracked and grabbed a bottle of vodka.

Ludwig refrained from shaking his head to himself, and watched silently as Magnus struck up a conversation with the hapless store-owner, who stood there behind the counter and just nodded away, a much-suffering look upon his face.

Magnus babbled on.

Ludwig was certain that at one point, he heard Magnus croon to the man, 'Ludde'.

Goddammit.

Although, from the glance back at him from above Magnus' shoulder, the owner would have much rather have been interacting with quiet 'Ludde' than with loud-mouthed Magnus.

Oh, well. He'd live.

Magnus burst into laughter at who knew what, reached out to clap the owner on the arm, gathered up his things, and walked out. Ludwig followed, and heard as he went a low, grumbled, "_Han prata sju stugor fulla_..."

Well, whatever that meant, it was probably true. Magnus, oblivious, dragged him onward.

"Hey! Let's go find you some new shoes, eh? Those boots have about had it."

He didn't respond, because he _liked _his boots, and also because he disliked the thought of anyone buying things for him. He hadn't really planned all of this well. He'd brought money, a little, but in Marks. What good were Marks all the way up here in this desolate town?

Sometimes, he felt like a great goddamn idiot.

And sometimes, as Magnus dragged him into a very tiny clothing store, he wondered where the hell Magnus kept getting all of this _money _from, when he really didn't seem to do much, except jump around in circles and harass Berwald and drink any bit of alcohol that wasn't nailed down.

He furrowed his brow when Magnus sifted through the clothes, his wallet already in his hand, and sometimes he looked back over at Ludwig with a critical eye.

"You think this'd look good on me?"

Ludwig opened his mouth, and only sputtered, "Ah—Well, I guess red's a good color for you."

Magnus seemed to take his words as an endorsement, and said, quite egotistically, "Yeah, I always thought so! Red just makes me pop, huh?"

Ludwig was glad that Magnus hadn't heard what he'd muttered under his breath then.

"Hey, you need some new clothes, too, huh?"

Well, that was a tricky one.

Because he _did _need clothes—he was tired of commandeering everyone else's. Magnus' clothes smelled like he'd just fallen into a vat of Bay Rum and Jäger, and sometimes it was a little inappropriate (actually, the smell was kind of pleasant, but the look Berwald sent him when he wore Magnus' clothes was _not_). Lukas' clothes were a little too tight, and he had to walk with very small strides lest he snap the threads.

Yet, he didn't want Magnus buying anything for him, especially since Magnus seemed to have a knack for picking out the most expensive things in the stores.

People like that.

Come to think, that was probably the only thing that kept these quiet villagers from banding together to chuck Magnus well and far away from their community; his wallet.

"What about this? You'll look good in this!"

He didn't really have time to form a response; Magnus already had clothes in hand, and as he walked to the counter, he pulled up a pair of new boots.

Ludwig felt embarrassed.

Magnus' smile was as bright as ever when they were back in the street, and he shoved the clothes into Ludwig's hands.

"I'm right—those'll look good on ya!"

Abashed, he only muttered, "I hope so."

They walked around, but Magnus didn't lead him back to the house. Actually, as they crossed the street and then back again, Ludwig realized that Magnus was leading him in circles.

The whole time, he just blabbered on and on. He kind of figured that Magnus was doing anything and everything to keep the journey going because he had _missed _speaking in the Jutland dialect, and was trying to get as much of it in whenever he could.

Poor Magnus. As homesick as the rest.

Whenever Magnus ran out of something to say, whenever there was a silence that lasted a little too long, Ludwig could see the steady creeping of shadow across his face.

That was why Magnus talked so much. To keep himself from thinking of other things.

Maybe it wasn't really a great idea, but Ludwig was the exact opposite of tactful, and asked, during one of those dreary silences when Magnus was staring off into the distance, "So, do you have family waiting back home?"

Ludwig was glad when Magnus smiled.

"Oh, yeah! I think I'm really the only one that does. Timo's family is all gone except for an aunt or something, and Berwald and Lukas are all alone. But me? Ha! I've got a ton. Too many to count! My mom's back home, and my aunts and uncles, my brothers and sisters, my cousins, my dad!"

He laughed to himself, and reached out to nudge Ludwig's elbow.

"Sometimes, I feel kinda bad, because I have so many and nobody else does."

"None of them thought about coming with you?"

The smile fell from Magnus' face a little, and Ludwig regretted asking.

Adoration was quickly replaced with something almost like scorn.

"We fell out a little bit. When the soldiers came, a lot of guys were happy, you know? One of my brothers is a marine, and when the German ships docked he was out there takin' pictures with 'em! My dad, too. I kind of made a scene about it. My brother told me to get over it or get out. So! I left, the next day. Didn't look back. Maybe they're better off without me."

A low, bitter scoff.

"Ah, but what do they know? They'll be cryin' soon, when everything starts goin' to hell."

Ludwig ducked his chin down in his collar a bit, and Magnus was quick to look over at him, suddenly looking as abashed as Ludwig felt.

"That is, hey, I mean, I'm not tryin' to offend you or nothin'—"

"It's alright."

With that, they fell into a silence that almost felt a little awkward, their clothes and hair being jostled every which way by the wind that was steadily picking up. The leaves on the trees rustled all around them. Magnus looked up at the sky, squinted his eyes in the sun, and then heaved a great sigh that was meant to be an ice-breaker.

"Well! It's okay! Sometimes, I think maybe I'm really better on my own, you know? I can do whatever I want! No rules!"

Hardly.

Feeling the mood improving a little, Ludwig dared himself to put his foot in his mouth again, and finally asked, "So. You worked on a farm huh?"

"Yup."

"Where'd you get all that money from?"

Magnus looked over at him, his smile wide.

"Hey, I wasn't lyin' when I said it was good work! Hell, I busted my ass over there. Almost twenty hours a day! I saved up everything I could. I was gonna buy a house somewhere and move out, but once all this started, I just brought it all with me. In case."

There seemed to be a glaring problem with that explanation.

"Well—if that's all you have, what're ya gonna do when you run out? The way you spend money you'll be broke by the end of the year!"

Silence.

And then, unbelievably, Magnus turned to look at him, and the expression on his face was absolutely indescribable. An awful mixture of worry, incredulousness, dread, and somehow, a little hope.

"Yeah," he began, in a thin, breathless voice, "But...the war will probably be over by then, right?"

Ludwig opened his mouth, lost his voice under the terrible look on Magnus' face, and only shrugged a shoulder.

This great, vast, grinding war over by the end of the year?

Oh, Magnus. Poor Magnus.

Magnus was not content with silence, and pressed, a bit more weakly, "Don't you think? It'll be over by then, surely..."

Stomach churning and feeling worse now than he had in all the weeks he'd been here, he finally tried to put on a smile (it fell) and he somehow managed to say, "Maybe. Probably. Who can say?"

Magnus' brow furrowed a little, and he turned his eyes straight back ahead, and after a dismal silence, he abruptly changed the subject.

"Man, I'm hungry! Look how late it's gettin'! It's about time for you to go cook me some dinner."

Oh.

"And after dinner, you can make me some aebleskivers!"

Well, he didn't really plan on slaving away over the stove tonight, but Magnus' smile was back, and that was well worth it, so he asked, casually, "That's all?"

Magnus just slapped him on the back, and beamed away. He was glad. Seeing that look on Magnus' face had been unpleasant, to say the least.

The sun was high up above the mountains. The start of the evening. They'd been out here for hours, just walking here and there and talking over the wind. Gilbert would have called a thing such as this 'bonding'.

Well, he didn't really know about that. He'd never 'bonded' with anyone except Gilbert.

...he missed Gilbert.

Hearing Magnus talk about his family had brought it up from the depths :

Homesickness.

Sometimes it came sneaking up on him. Goddamn Gilbert had sometimes gotten on his nerves more than anyone else ever could, he'd been loud and obnoxious and domineering, he'd been arrogant and foolish, he'd been a pain in the _ass_, but God help him...

He _missed_ Gilbert. He didn't think it would make his chest hurt this much; a dull, throbbing ache above his lungs that made his stomach twist with the stirring of nausea.

He bit his bottom lip in a subconscious attempt to keep his expression blank. It didn't work. Magnus looked over at him, and then, as before, slung a heavy, amicable arm around his shoulders.

As Gilbert would have.

Oh. He wanted to go _home_.

Impossible.

It hurt to say it, but this was as close to home as it got now. He could make the best of it, if he really tried. If he tried...

Sometimes, though, he really didn't even _feel _like trying.

Magnus saw his gloomy mood, and suddenly asked, "Say. When the war's over, where are ya gonna go?"

Where _could _he go? He had no family aside from Gilbert. No one he knew.

"I don't really know. I guess I'll wing it."

Magnus' arm tightened around his shoulder, his bags clenched within his other hand, and he leaned in, so close that for a moment their cheeks almost bumped together.

"Well," Magnus began, after a short silence, "You know, everyone's wonderin' now where they're gonna go. I guess it all depends on how the war ends. Like, if Finland isn't freed, then I know Timo won't go back. Lukas said he'll go back to Norway after, no matter how it ends. I don't know if I wanna go back home or not."

Ludwig eyed him, as they kept their joint pace steady and slow, and he asked, after a pause, "Well, what about Berwald? Why can't you just stay here?"

Magnus snorted, and barked a quick laugh.

"Who knows what Berwald's gonna do after! He never talks about it. I don't even know where he lived before. I guess he'll go back there. I mean, I like it out here and all, but only for a taste. This place is _way _too quiet for me. I'd go crazy if I lived up here forever."

He could believe that. Someone like Magnus needed to be around people. The city, not the country.

They fell into a long, comfortable silence, and then he got something a little unexpected.

Magnus leaned in again, and this time their cheeks did press together (friendly Magnus—such contact was completely normal for him), and he said, quietly, "When it's all over and done with, if you don't have anywhere to go, and if you want to, you can come with me and Timo."

He didn't bother to try and pull away from the touch.

His chest hurt.

Magnus. A gentle soul, maybe, hidden behind an arrogant, brash exterior. Maybe if Berwald and Magnus didn't hate each other so much, they could have been best friends. So different, and yet so similar.

Keeping his face together well, Ludwig only smiled, and teased, "You and Timo, huh?"

Magnus' face lit up as red as the flowers he liked to pick, and he pulled away from Ludwig with a clearing of his throat.

"Yeah, well! You know! Ahh—I've kinda taken a likin' to him, I guess, so, I mean, if he can't go home, then I've told him too that he can come with me! Er—"

At Magnus' unusually flustered appearance, Ludwig couldn't help but feel the improving of his mood. Magnus had a way of lifting him up, even if he hadn't meant to.

"That is, I've taken a liking to all you guys! Eh, _almost _all of you guys, anyway. I mean, I've never been in this kinda situation, where the guys you live with can really save your _life_, and I don't know—it's just different. I guess... I'd call all of you my brothers, even more than 'friends'. As far I'm concerned, we're all in this together now. Even you. I mean, Lukas said he'll go home no matter what, and Berwald's fine. But you and Timo, if things don't end well, I couldn't just leave ya out to the winds, you know? We're together in this now, we should be together after."

With that, Magnus reached out and ruffled his already wind-swept hair. His smile was back up like the sun.

Ludwig smiled too.

Magnus saw them all as brothers. Somehow, that sounded alright with him. He'd lost one brother. Maybe gaining four more for it wasn't such a bad price to pay. He'd never really looked at it like that, and it was beyond comforting to think that after all of this was over, after all of it, that he would not be left alone in the middle of nowhere.

"C'mon," Magnus finally said, as they changed direction one final time, "Let's get back. My arm's gettin' tired."

Ludwig only sent Magnus a testy look, and rolled his eyes. He was the one, not Magnus, that had been saddled with most of the items.

They walked back until the street turned to dirt, the ground soft beneath his boots, and then Magnus started talking again.

This time, though, it was just a quick, somewhat tentative question.

"Hey... You really think I spend too much?"

"I do."

"If I gave you my money, would you hide it somewhere for me? So I won't use it all?"

For whatever reason, his heart raced. Magnus _had _to have liked him. Had to. To trust him with something like that.

Finally, he answered, very smoothly despite the adrenaline in his veins, "Sure."

Magnus smiled.

"Thanks."

They didn't say another word until they reached the bend in the road, the great forest looming above them on either side, and the house was visible high up in the distance.

Home.

By the time they made it up the hill, the sun was low on the horizon, hanging barely above the mountains, and everyone else was already inside.

Smoke from the chimney.

Magnus grabbed the handle and held the door open, and the second he had crossed the threshold into the warm house, Ludwig _felt _it, if only a little.

_Home_.

The fireplace roaring off in the living room, the smell of coffee from the kitchen, the sounds of friendly voices chattering away from within, rooms and sights that had now become familiar, and even though he shouldn't have been here, even though he wasn't really _one _of them, it still felt good to have somewhere to go at the end of the day.

Wasn't that a home? Just because it wasn't his country, and just because Gilbert wasn't here...

Did that make it any less of a home?

And when they walked past the threshold of the kitchen, Timo and Lukas cried, simultaneously, "Hello!"

A greeting, just for walking in. Wasn't that a home? He'd try harder, and make it happen. He wasn't going anywhere. This was home.

Gilbert was gone. Nothing would change that now, no matter how much he sat down and made himself sick about it.

He and Gilbert had parted ways.

Magnus poked his head above Ludwig's shoulder to peer in, and said, chidingly, "Hey, what are ya doin', startin' dinner without me?"

Timo waved a hand in the air, and sent him a testy look. "You and him were out so long I thought you'd run off on us."

A lurch of his heart made Ludwig shift, but Timo was only joking; his smile was as big as ever. Running off was no longer part of the plan.

Magnus left Ludwig behind to tromp quickly up the stairs, no doubt to toss his things down on the bed and come back down to make as much of a ruckus as possible.

Ludwig meant to follow.

"Hey, Ludwig!" Timo said, as soon as he had taken a step, and he paused, "Come here!"

Ludwig looked back over, and could see, behind the beaming Timo, that Berwald was standing back in the corner of the kitchen, arms loose at his sides and looking a little strange.

What now?

They were probably plotting something. A new task for him.

He delayed it.

"Hang on," he said, and he went first to his room to set down the items he had brought back with him. He made sure that he walked the hall as slowly as possible, and lingered in his room to hang the clothes up neatly in the closet next to Lukas'.

He didn't really want to know what they wanted him for. He didn't want to have to go out with them again so soon, once he was finally starting to get used to this place and this silence.

Magnus' loud footsteps came clanging from above as he bounded back down in a hurry.

From across the way, he could hear them in the kitchen, chatting in whatever language they used when he wasn't around.

He set the last of the clothes inside, turned around, bounced up on his heels, and bided his time. They were probably going to sit him down and butter him up and then spring something on him.

'Say Ludwig, do you like this roasted deer, and here's some top-shelf Russian vodka, and oh, by the way, you've gotta come with us over into Norway and blow some shit up, and here's some lebkuchen we picked up from town, did you have enough vodka? And oh yeah, you might wanna practice with that rifle 'cause you're gonna need it, but no pressure!'

His head was starting to hurt again.

Couldn't put it off forever.

Taking a deep breath, he cleared his face of all emotion, smoothed back his messy hair, and stepped back into the hall. Their loud voices from the kitchen weren't quite so comforting this time. Not with his stomach churning as it was.

Berwald expected a lot of him.

He came to the door of the kitchen, and hesitated. Magnus and Timo looked up at the same time, and smiled at him.

He stood there.

"Hey, Ludwig, come here," Timo said, the very second his foot finally crossed the threshold, and he pushed down the squirm of nervousness, lifted his chin, and walked over.

Berwald watched him, shifting his weight back and forth. Isolated in the corner, in front of the stove.

Timo came around him, effectively blocking him in between himself and Berwald, and Ludwig felt the nervousness turn into a little dread.

As he stood there, trapped near the stove in between Timo on the left and Berwald on the right, he shifted his weight as Timo came ever closer, until finally he was brushing Ludwig's arm with his own.

A short silence, as Timo glanced between him and Berwald with a strange, leering smile, and then he spoke.

And what he said was not at all what Ludwig had expected.

"Say, Ludwig!" Timo began cheerfully, if not somewhat slyly, and when Ludwig turned to look at him, he was pretty much bouncing on his toes. "Hey, you think you can try to help Berwald with something?"

He opened his mouth, lost his voice, and craned his head to look over at Berwald.

Berwald stood there, silently, and the look on his face made it clear to Ludwig that all of this was entirely Timo's doing.

Even so. Chances to do something for Berwald were few and far between, and he finally found his voice and said, perhaps too eagerly, "Sure!"

"Great!"

He could hear the shuffle of Berwald's feet and the clearing of his throat. It was still kinda funny sometimes, to see huge Berwald looking embarrassed and apprehensive over what were mostly little things.

"What is it?"

"Well," Timo said, as he knelt down to rummage through a cabinet, "It's Thursday night, and Berwald was wondering, if he told you how, if you could try to make him some plätter. I always end up burning them!"

Berwald's brow was so low that he was practically squinting, and the flush of red on his cheeks was obvious, even above the pale stubble he had failed to shave in the morning.

Without really thinking about, seeing that look of mortification on Berwald's face, Ludwig said, "I'll give it a try."

Timo's face lit up like the sun. "Great! That's great!"

Berwald lifted his shoulders up and down, as Timo finally brought out a strange looking pan from beneath the counter. Looked like he coulda died.

The wide beam on Timo's face could not be shaken, and he put the odd iron pan on the stove, and started to back away.

"I'll just let you two handle this. I've got some vodka callin' my name from over there! Have fun!"

'You two'. There was no mistaking the tease in those simple words. With that, Timo whirled on his heel, and scampered off, grabbing Magnus and Lukas by either arm and hauling them to their feet, dragging them into the living room.

He and Berwald were left alone. Ludwig started at the empty doorframe with furrowed brow.

Timo, that little fuck.

...ha. How did Timo know that he liked spending time with Berwald?

Turning around to face the silent, shuffling Berwald, Ludwig finally had the mind to ask, "Now, what are we making?"

Berwald looked him over, and then quickly away, scratching irritably at his cheek. He muttered something incomprehensible.

"What?"

If possible, Berwald looked even more mortified, and finally grumbled, aloud, "Somethin' my gramma used to make ev'ry Thursday night."

Oh. Okay. That wasn't much of an explanation.

Quiet, awkward Berwald needed a little prodding, and a little patience didn't hurt either. Luckily for both of them, so many years of putting up with Gilbert had bestowed Ludwig with enough patience to last until the goddamn apocalypse.

So, he placed a hand on the counter, and said, "Where do we start?"

Berwald reached up, and scrounged the cabinets for all of two seconds.

Eggs, flour, milk and butter.

...the others should have been more patient with Berwald. Magnus and Timo were too quick for him, happy to push him aside, and Lukas was sometimes too eager to speak for him.

Looking at the exceedingly simple array of ingredients, Ludwig only looked at Berwald and asked, "That's it?"

A slow nod.

"So what do we do?"

Berwald looked at the counter for a moment, eyes raking over this and that, as if trying to remember exactly how he had seen it done, and then he pointed to the eggs.

"Okay..."

Berwald looked at him with a little embarrassment, and Ludwig finally smiled.

"Scrambled eggs?"

Berwald snorted, and dropped his shoulders in relaxation.

After that, it was a little easier.

Asking such a simple thing from any of the others might not have been so hard for Berwald, but Ludwig understood; he still wasn't really _one _of them, yet, so maybe Berwald felt strange bothering him with it. It wasn't a bother. In Berwald he felt he had, if not a companion, than at least an equal. Someone who understood how hard it could be to interact with others.

Being a soldier had been easy for him; shooting and training and calculating were all normal, simple tasks. Everyday occurrences. But this was a little harder. The simple, common act of making friends and interacting with people.

This was a challenge.

Berwald was a challenge.

Well! He'd always liked a good challenge. He could see past Berwald's intimidating, gruff exterior, since Berwald had been able to see past his long enough to not pull the trigger of the gun.

They could work well together, he felt it. Even if was just banding together to attempt a batch of plätter, which, Ludwig was discovering, were really just very tiny, very fussy pancake..._things_.

As it turned out, that was a challenge too.

It would have been easy, when he burnt the hell out of the first batch, to just blame Berwald for distracting him by hovering over him. The second burnt batch didn't really have much of an excuse. Third batch was undercooked, for his fear of burning them. The fourth stuck to the pan and broke when he scraped them with the spoon.

And the whole while, Berwald just stood there right behind of him, and didn't say a word. Ludwig was fairly certain that he was thinking something along the lines of, 'but my grandma made it look so easy!'

Damn.

It wasn't really a big deal. Somehow, though, it was a little disappointing to let Berwald down, even just for this.

Berwald, the leader of this group. Berwald, who expected much of him.

"Damn, damn, _damn_!" he cursed under his breath, as the little fuckers just kept fighting him in every way possible, and if he had bothered to look over his shoulder past his frustration, he might have seen that Berwald was very nearly smiling.

No wonder Timo had passed this off on him.

Nearly an hour after he'd set foot in the kitchen, the sun was gone and the forest was dark outside the windows, and he had absolutely nothing to show for it. Even so, he and Berwald shared looks of faint amusement as they tossed the useless plätter out of the window for the woodland animals.

The hot pan was doused in water, and Ludwig could hear the laughter from within the living room as the others chatted and drank. Having more success at getting drunk than he'd had with his task.

"Sorry," he said, as Berwald washed the pan quietly. "I'll have to practice this. I'll do it better next time."

Berwald just shook his head.

"S'alright. Maybe I didn't remember the stuff right. "

"We'll experiment," he supplied, as he cleaned off the bowls.

"Hm."

Results or no results, time spent with quiet Berwald had been worth it.

They stood side by side in a pleasant silence. Berwald looked over, and the expression on his face was all calm. He almost looked a little _happy_. Their eyes met on occasion, and well...

What was that feeling? An unfamiliar one. Ludwig knew he was staring too much, but he couldn't seem to help it.

Something about Berwald kept his gaze.

A particularly loud burst of laughter from Magnus drew Berwald's eyes over to the threshold, and that calm was gone as quickly as it had come. The familiar look of seriousness was back.

One of these days, he would gather up the courage to actually ask Berwald what it was, exactly, about Magnus that riled him up so.

Magnus was loud and obnoxious, sure, but not a bad guy.

In the end, maybe the 'why' wasn't really important.

Sometimes, people just didn't get along. Simple as that. Reasons were just reasons. Sometimes there was no reason at all for hate. Maybe Magnus and Berwald had just woken up one morning and decided that they didn't want to get along anymore.

It was probably selfish, but Ludwig was just fine with that as long as both of them liked _him_. Hell, let 'em hate each other. As long as Berwald looked happy around _him_.

Berwald took a step forward, and without even thinking about it, Ludwig followed him.

Just to see where he went.

Instead of barging outside to lurk in solitude, or into his room to sit down on his bed and sulk, Berwald went straight into the living room, with a high chin and sharp eyes, and he immediately took note of the scene.

Observing what was happening.

There wasn't anything out of the ordinary. Just Magnus splayed on the loveseat, Timo slouched in a chair, and Lukas sitting cross-legged on the floor. A very normal scene, at least from what Ludwig had seen so far. What had Berwald barged in here expecting to see?

"Hey!" Timo said, gawking up at them with bleary eyes as they entered, "How'd it go?"

Ludwig looked at each of them, and finally summed up, "Not as good as your drinking's been."

"You'll get it after a few tries."

Looking around the room and apparently satisfied at what he saw, Berwald took his usual spot on the couch, resting his elbows on his knees as he eyed the bottles of alcohol sitting upon the coffee table.

Ludwig's attention was drawn by Magnus, who strove to catch his eye.

"Hey! Hey! C'mere," Magnus cried, sloppily, as he waved him over. "Sit, sit, we're drinkin'!"

Obeying the command, Ludwig sat.

But he didn't sit with Magnus.

The seat next to Berwald was wide open and, even though Magnus was extending an arm, he leapt for it, settling in beside of Berwald as unintentionally as possible, taking up a glass from the table.

Berwald glanced over at him, with a high brow, as if alarmed. As if nobody had ever thought to sit with _him_.

Sad.

Magnus watched him for a second, one eye squinted in scrutiny, and then he leaned back into the couch and broke into a wide, if not lopsided, smile.

"Ah," he finally slurred, as he waved an errant hand, "Who needs ya, eh?"

Ludwig inclined his head, and lifted his glass.

"Sorry. You try to shove me onto the floor."

"I need lotsa room."

Timo giggled a little, and leaned forward, cheeks flushed with alcohol as he sputtered, "And lotsa booze. Poor Ludwig doesn't stand a chance around you."

"Don't listen to him," Magnus crooned, his slurred voice a smooth, pleasant waft above the ruckus and clattering, as his eyes met Ludwig's blearily, "Anyway! There's a saying up here : Danes live to eat, Norwegians eat to live, and Swedes eat to drink. So _I_ think ol' Berwald's the one we should be keepin' an eye on."

The look Berwald sent Magnus could have set the house on fire.

Unable to keep the smile from his face, Ludwig rested his chin in his palm and turned a lazy gaze to Magnus, and said, "Are you sure that's right? Because I only ever seem to see you comin' in with a handful of bottles. More like 'Danes live to _drink_', I think."

Magnus burst into obnoxious laughter, and when he glanced over, Ludwig could see that Berwald looked a bit satisfied. Content, maybe, that someone had come to his defense.

Timo shook his head, and then, in his drunkenness, he dissolved into Danish (Swedish?), and the conversation he and Magnus had was lost to him.

It was alright. They had talked to him enough. They had been talking to him a _lot_ today.

For a second, Ludwig couldn't help but wonder if maybe he had been right after all; maybe they were planning something.

An hour passed, and then another, then Magnus was asleep, Timo somehow managed to stagger off to his room, and then Lukas went, too.

Sitting there alone with Berwald, whose cheeks were flushed and glasses crooked, listening to Magnus' snoring, hearing Lukas pattering around his room, the fire warm and bright, the wind howling outside, he felt pretty damn content, too. And then Berwald turned to him, and slurred, deeply, "Ya don' haveta be so nice to him, ya know? S'okay if ya...if ya just...you know."

Lost for words, apparently too drunk to form coherent German, Berwald only barked a short, coarse laugh, and reached out to slap him rather roughly on the back as he promptly finished his sentence in Swedish.

Ludwig didn't understand a damn word he said, but smiled, because the sound of his voice was exceedingly pleasant.

He was _sure _of it then. They _liked _him.

Berwald fell back into the cushion, sinking down a little more as the clock ticked by, the bottle emptied soon after, the fire started to die out, and Ludwig vaguely remembered, in the darkness of night, leading stumbling and staggering Berwald up the stairs, tossing him down onto his bed, and then making his own wobbly way back down to his own bed, where he threw himself face first into the pillow.

He thought that he felt Lukas pulling off his boots sometime later.

Morning came too soon.

Not because of the mild hangover. Something else.

Because the next morning, it didn't really take too long for him to discover what they had in store for him. Berwald's slap on the back had been setting a good mood for something else.

Head throbbing and stomach churning, he allowed himself to sleep in a little (just a little), and it was Lukas who was up first. It was somewhat surreal to have someone knocking on his door not long after, banging with particular enthusiasm.

When he pulled himself to his feet and staggered over to pull open the door, he was met with a very rough-looking Magnus, who, despite his sleep-shocked appearance, was leering in a very satisfied manner.

"Woke up before you," he rasped, hair sticking up and eyes lidded, and it was obviously a moment of glory for him.

To be awake before Ludwig.

Ludwig sent him a stern look, rubbing sleep from his eyes, and muttered, "Only because you passed out first. Proud of yourself, huh? Feel good?"

Magnus smoothed down his hair, and drawled, smartly, "'I count him braver who overcomes his desires than him who conquers his enemies; for the hardest victory," he placed a hand emphatically over his chest, "is over _self_.'"

...showboat. Goddamn showboat. He couldn't help but grimace and roll his eyes.

Around Magnus, it was a wonder one's eyes didn't become stuck upwards.

Before Ludwig could step out and start the day, Magnus blocked him and said, "Here."

Reaching out, he placed something quickly in Ludwig's hand. Ludwig looked down, and saw that it was a stack of bills. The annoyance with Magnus was gone as quick as it had come, because Magnus trusted him.

"Don't tell me where it is, eh? You can keep me on an allowance."

"Oh," Ludwig replied as he tucked the money into his pocket, "That won't be a problem."

"I figured."

A smile, and then Magnus wandered off back up the stairs, and Ludwig, taking this duty as seriously as he took every other, turned around, searching high and low for a spot that would keep the money well and hidden.

There weren't really any good options, and in the end, he wound up sticking the money in the middle of a drawer full of Lukas' cables and wires, where even the bravest soul would hesitate to plunge his hands.

Tidying his hair and changing his clothes, he made his way to the door, and when he stepped into the hall, there was another distraction.

Timo.

"Morning!" he chirped, as he stood in front of Ludwig, arms clasped neatly behind his back. "Since you were asleep, me and Lukas made breakfast for you! Thought we'd do something nice!"

"Ah. Thanks," he managed, and Timo clapped him on the shoulder, and slunk away.

Oh, yeah. They were gonna spring something on him, alright. He could feel it.

Putting on his guard and his old face of calm, he made his way into the kitchen.

Lukas sat at the table, coffee in hand and tapping his foot in rhythm on the floor as he hummed away, and beside of him sat Berwald.

"Mornin'," Lukas acknowledged, without even looking up, and it only took one glance at the food on the plate for Ludwig to quickly lose his appetite.

He was in no mood for fish. Not this early.

Berwald, glasses low on his nose and looking a little pale, saw his look and decided to spare him.

Thank God for Berwald.

"Hey. Got somethin' to talk to ya about."

And here it was!

He kept his face blank, and merely said, "Oh?"

Lukas snorted, and muttered something under his breath that Ludwig could not understand. Berwald muttered back, and Ludwig shifted his weight. He hated it when people talked about him in a language he couldn't understand.

Pulling himself to his feet, Berwald reached up to straightened his collar, and stepped out into the hall.

"C'mere."

Ludwig followed him.

Not because he was obligated to, or because he was being receptive or submissive; it was just that staying behind would mean having to eat his breakfast.

And, well...

At this point, whatever Berwald had in store might have been the lesser of two evils.

Heavy footsteps on the stairs as Berwald went up, and as Ludwig followed, he was certain that he had caught a glimpse of Timo down below, peering out of his room with his arms crossed above his chest.

Waiting. Watching.

He found himself hesitating at the top of his stairs, leaving one hand atop the railing as he watched Berwald walk into his room, and leave the door open behind.

What kind of talk was this? What was it that had to be said in such a private setting?

It was hard not to be a little nervous.

It was a strange thing, to step foot in Berwald's room, when he finally got his feet to move and managed to come forward. Somehow, a little intimidating.

Berwald was standing there next to the closet, one hand in his pocket and the other loose at his side, and Ludwig shut the door behind.

A long silence.

Ludwig looked around the room, and wasn't really surprised that it was very neat, and very bare. No dirty clothes flung off in the corner like in Magnus' room. No stack of books or pretty lamps like in Timo's room. No maps on the walls or drawers half-open like in Lukas' room.

Not much. Just an end-table, and a clock on the wall. That was it.

Brown blanket and pillows and dark curtains. Not too far from what he had somehow expected. Quaint, clean, and bland.

Finally, Berwald lifted up a hand in the air, and motioned him forward in a silent gesture of 'come here'.

He took a step, and then another, the wooden floor cool even through his socks, and when he was close, Berwald looked down at him with an expression that was almost anxious.

He stayed silent, and in the end it was Ludwig who finally spoke first, patting his hands airily on his pants and saying, "So. What did you want to tell me?"

He expected a slow, awkward speech about what his duties here were about to include.

Instead, Berwald rolled back his shoulders, looked him up and down, and asked, "Did you really mean it when you said ya wanted to stay?"

"I did."

That, it seemed, was what Berwald wanted to hear. Without another word, he turned around, and took up the doorknob in his hand. When Berwald opened up the closet, it was pretty damn obvious why they had been so interactive with him the night before and so friendly this morning.

His old uniform was in there. It looked as good as new. Patched up and clean of blood.

He had a feeling about where this was going.

And he didn't like it.

He wanted to vocalize his displeasure, but found himself voiceless and immobile as Berwald turned back to look at him from above his shoulder.

"We might be leavin' soon. Things get worse every day. So..."

Every day.

Berwald sent him a quick look, and his voice was very sure and matter-of-fact when he added, "So we'll keep it in case we ever need to use it."

Ludwig opened his mouth, and quickly lost his voice when he realized the entire implication of Berwald's simple statement. He sent Berwald a testy look, shoulders raised and probably bristling.

Berwald seemed unfazed, hands tucked in his pockets.

Sure, it didn't bother _Berwald_, because the unspoken implication was that, if they ever needed him to, they would be quick to stuff Ludwig back into his Wehrmacht uniform and send him back out amidst the wolves, for either information or to clear a safe passage, keeping an eye on him from a good distance as he tried to dance within the ranks again and pretend like nothing out of the ordinary had ever occurred.

A spy.

They were keeping the uniform in case they needed him to spy.

He was _not _okay with that.

Agitated, he crossed his arms and said, thickly, "You should just toss it out."

A 'hm' of consideration. Then Berwald straightened up and said, quite easily, "No."

Agitation was replaced with anger.

That Berwald could stand here and tell him (so easily) that he would be expected to wear this uniform again and use it work against his own. Men he had once called comrades. Men he had trained with. Soldiers. That he had the audacity.

Patience was needed with Berwald, but this time he couldn't find it.

Maybe his stance or his face said it all, for Berwald shut the closet and turned around, and caught Ludwig's eye in one of those moments of intensity as he said, carefully, "It won't be what ya think. I wouldn't send ya off somewhere all alone. Soviets and Germans are still friends. Ya might be able to get us past roadblocks in Finland. Nothin' else. Give ya my word."

Berwald's word. Even so.

He broke away from Berwald's eyes, and turned to glower out of the window. He didn't really want to put on that uniform for anything that would have ever made him dishonorable.

Honor. For a soldier, the highest thing. How could he take what had been given to him in trust and use it for dishonesty?

That wasn't right.

Berwald hovered behind him, and Ludwig could hear the floorboards creaking as he shifted his weight back and forth as he no doubt struggled to find comforting words. He apparently found none, and in the end, after a long silence, he reached out and placed a heavy hand on Ludwig's shoulder.

Ludwig felt his anger dissipating.

Kinda hard to stay mad at slow, steady Berwald. Still, he kept his head turned, if only to make his stance known.

"Think about it."

With that, Berwald walked to the door, and Ludwig followed.

A quick glance up saw that Berwald looked a little disappointed. Like he'd messed something up. Ah, hell, Berwald's presentation would not have been any different than anyone else's.

He wasn't mad at _Berwald_, not exactly. It was just an unfortunate situation that he wished he could have avoided.

Finally, Berwald looked down at him, and inclined his head, muttering, "Think about it, huh? We really need ya."

Then, he tromped down the stairs, feet heavy on the wood, and Ludwig was left alone at the top to stare down with a furrowed brow and try to figure out what the hell he was gonna do now.

What _could _he do?

He was not sure of himself enough to set off on his own and leave these men behind. If he had been, he wasn't certain he had the heart to. He had gotten used to them.

He _liked_ them, God help him. The word 'brother' was hard to let go of.

Seeing that uniform had brought up everything he had striven so hard to press down. It was like looking at Gilbert.

Memories. He _missed _Gilbert. Stung like a knife in his gut.

Gilbert couldn't have ever been proud of him if he put that uniform on now, and he couldn't have been proud either if he'd ever really understood how Ludwig had felt back then. He could never have told Gilbert that none of this had felt _right_. Gilbert would never have understood.

Gilbert would have hated him.

He hadn't ever wanted to see that uniform again.

He retreated into his own room, threw himself down on the bed, crossed his arms behind his head, and stared up at the ceiling until the sun was low. He could hear them talking outside, or in the kitchen, or in the hall, and he expected Lukas to come barging in and hover over him like he usually did.

When it was starting to get dark and he had been passing in and out of sleep, the door creaked open.

It wasn't Lukas.

Berwald poked his head in, but didn't come inside for respect, and merely said, "Want some coffee?"

He looked over through sleepy eyes, took in the rather melancholy look of Berwald, and then sat up.

"Sure."

Berwald seemed a little relieved.

When he sat down on the couch in front of the unlit fireplace, Berwald sat down beside of him and set a mug down on the coffee table, and he felt a little more sure of himself.

The past was gone. Time to stop dwelling on it. He was dead to Gilbert and the outside world, and the uniform was just a hunk of fabric that no longer had any meaning.

Berwald propped his feet up on the edge of the table, and glanced over at him from time to time, occasionally uttering a clumsy word here and there.

Small talk.

"Tired?"

"A little."

"Yuh. Ya get up so early all the time."

Berwald was trying to gauge his mood.

"T'morrow, I'll teach ya how to make a table or somethin', if ya want."

"Sure. Why not?"

He tried to keep himself impassive, but it was hard, and sometimes he was forced to bring up the coffee mug to hide the smile that threatened to come when Berwald completely mangled a word or said something that he didn't really mean to. Having a conversation with Berwald was pretty much a guessing game.

Berwald lifted his mood as much as Magnus did, without any of the loud effort. After a while of sitting there with Berwald, he found that homesickness was hard to dwell on.

He liked Berwald. Hard not to.

Ha. Looked like a huge bear, with that deep voice and those broad shoulders, and yet for all of him he came off as surprisingly...

Well.

Ludwig wasn't exactly sure how to describe him. What could really be said about Berwald? How could anyone really portray him?

Tall. Lots of guys were tall.

Brave. Plenty of men were brave.

Handsome. Many men were handsome, and in this household, Magnus and Lukas probably beat Berwald in the look department.

Dedicated. So many men were dedicated to their own causes.

What could be said about Berwald?

If he had been meeting Berwald for the first time, passing him on the streets perhaps, maybe he would have thought to himself, 'what a big guy,' and then he would have just carried on without a second glance. Nothing extraordinary.

He couldn't necessarily put his finger on what exactly it _was _that made Berwald stick out to him so much more than the others, especially considering that he spoke about a tenth as much. Why he would rather find himself with Berwald than anyone else.

He liked Berwald's silence. His seriousness. How he could shift when necessary from aggressiveness to passiveness.

He even liked how Berwald was bullied by Timo at times.

Berwald had been so intimidating at first, when he had awoken tied up to the bed. The way he could stand in a corner and successfully stare someone down had been especially alarming. Berwald had been the most daunting of the group.

Meeting Berwald's gaze was no problem now. Rather than the most daunting, Berwald had somehow become the easiest to handle.

Timo was sometimes too bold and outspoken to make Ludwig comfortable. Magnus was too belligerent and reckless and too loud. Lukas was too unnerving and unpredictable.

He liked Berwald for his slow, steady consistency. He liked Berwald for his quiet nature and gentle hands.

The opposite of everything Gilbert had been.

He didn't feel like he had to try so _hard _around Berwald. He didn't have to strive to make himself visible, because Berwald was so low-key and so reserved that it was easy just to sit beside of him and not feel inadequate. Someone who could understand him, in more ways than the others could.

What a relief.

Especially since he had been so certain towards the beginning that Berwald had _hated _him.

If Berwald didn't like him, then why would he hover over him like he did?

This past month or so, every time he had turned around Berwald had been there, offering companionship and a helping hand. If Berwald didn't like him, then why would he have ever parted with the rifle that he cherished so?

It was a feeling that he couldn't really put into words, to be sitting on the couch early in the misty morning, staring out of the window in a moment of depression, and having Berwald appear next to him and extend a word of kindness.

He couldn't really explain _why_. Something about Berwald put him at ease. Berwald may not have been loud like Magnus, or cheerful like Timo, or intimate like Lukas, but he was, well...

Somethin'.

Sweet, maybe, was the word he was grasping for. Berwald was sweet-natured, despite the rather frightening confession he had made late that night on the porch.

So he sat there on the couch, as the night dragged, and Berwald sat beside of him, and there was a comfortable silence as they finished off the coffee.

He liked Berwald.

He went to sleep later on, and the morning came as quickly as it so often did.

As promised, that day Berwald took him out into the yard and taught him how to work the saw and the sander and smooth down the components needed to make basic woodworks.

He fumbled all attempts, miserably.

Berwald just snorted and shook his head, and Timo, sitting up on the porch, called down words of advice and occasional bouts of laughter.

Even though he fucked up a good piece of wood into disrepair, it was alright. By the end of the day, smelling like pine and grass, he had forgotten all about the uniform, and went into the house smiling and satisfied with his efforts.

He did notice, as the sun set over the mountains, that Berwald looked a little mournful afterwards. A little sad. Distant and thoughtful. Like something good had come to an end.

He didn't understand, and none of the others really seemed to notice, or if they did, they didn't ask.

When he and Berwald sat on the couch that night, he hazarded himself to ask, "Feel alright?"

Berwald looked over at him, a bit lethargically, and heaved a great sigh.

"Just thinkin'."

He offered nothing else, and Ludwig asked nothing else, because he understood what it was like to have many things on your mind that you couldn't really put into words.

The night passed quietly.

Actually, when he thought about it, everyone seemed a little moody. Even Magnus.

Like everything else, it didn't take long to find out why.

The next day, the air was strangely thick.

Sad.

Everyone smiled at him when they passed, or at least they tried to, and he found Berwald sitting out on one of the tables outside, arm rested on his knee and staring off blankly into the mountains.

When they gathered in the living room that evening to clean the guns, they were strangely silent. Quiet. Oddly attentive to the task. Magnus looked over his guns with an unusually critical eye. Lukas, instead of tinkering with cables, was looking over a handgun.

Ludwig looked them over in turn, trying to figure it all out without asking, but they only caught his eye, gave him a half-hearted smile, and then looked away.

He felt sick. He hated not knowing. He hated being in the dark.

His stomach churned even more when, as soon as the guns were clean, they did not return to the shed or to the chest in the hall.

Instead, they were sat next to the door.

Afterwards, Berwald eyed Ludwig, and finally asked, carefully and somewhat drearily, "Lemme look that over for ya."

Ludwig handed over his rifle to Berwald, and let him check it over as he saw fit. He watched with an odd sense of melancholy as Berwald took apart the rifle he had just cleaned, and cleaned it all over again.

After a half hour or so, Berwald, shaking his head to himself, had it back together, and sent him a quick look.

"You did a good job."

Berwald's words, for once, did nothing to calm him.

There was a long, awkward silence, and then Timo stood up, and placed his hands on his hips as he looked them all over, and he blew air through his teeth.

And what Timo said next made his heart sink down all the way into his feet.

"Ludwig. Get your things together—well, whatever you have, pack up. We're leaving. In the morning."

Leaving.

A sense of something that was not quite dread, but far beyond disappointment.

He liked it here. In the quiet, snowy mountains.

Berwald crossed his arms over his chest, and nodded his head when Ludwig looked at him for confirmation.

So. That was why they had been so strange all day. They'd known all along.

Throat dry, he asked, "Where?"

Timo glanced over at Magnus, and they suddenly all looked a little shifty. A little reluctant. Like they had been putting this off for a while.

Finally, Lukas said, "We're going down to Gotland."

"Where's that?"

"It's an island. We're gonna stay there and cross the sea into Estonia to help out a friend of Timo's for a while."

Okay. _Now _it was dread.

Estonia. Soviet-occupied Estonia. As bad as German-occupied Norway.

He'd risked his life and honor to get away from Norway.

Timo caught his eye, and tried to smile.

"It shouldn't be so bad. They're a little group. They don't really do all that much. They're not well enough equipped to start their own war."

That wasn't comforting.

He had just started to think of this place as home.

He hung his head and stared at his feet, hands clasped in his lap, and they all stood up, and retreated into their own rooms, presumably to finish packing. Berwald stayed behind after the others had left, and stood there at the bottom of the steps.

Ludwig knew he probably looked a little ill.

After a moment of silence, Berwald spoke. His guttural voice was hard to hear, even in such stillness.

"I meant what I said before. If you wanna leave, you can go. But I'd like for ya to come. I'd like for ya to stay with us."

With that, he turned and ambled off up the stairs, and Ludwig sat there for what felt like hours, lost in his thoughts.

Berwald expected a lot of him. Berwald wanted him to stay.

Stay and fight.

They offered their lives so willingly. He had always wanted to be brave like that.

He had done so many godawful things back home.

They fought for ideals. _He _had only ever wanted to make Gilbert proud. That was all he'd wanted. Gilbert was _gone_, now. These men were really all he had. A little strange, and a little sad, but they were the closest thing he'd probably ever have to a family ever again.

Everything he'd ever done before had been to make Gilbert proud. Now, he wanted to make Berwald proud.

No.

Beyond all of that, beyond anything else, he wanted to make _himself _proud. He wanted to be proud of himself. He wanted to feel good about himself. Oh, God. He'd have given anything to feel _good _about himself.

He had loved being a soldier. Maybe he could still be one, just for a different cause. A better cause. He could still hold on to the shreds of whatever dignity and honor remained.

Fight for that old Germany by fighting against this new, dark one.

Feeling oddly dreamy and a little morose, he slept on the couch that night, wanting to be alone to think.

He didn't sleep much.

Morning was breaking before he had really even gone to sleep, as he spent hours and hours torn between feeling sick and feeling hopeful and drifting in and out.

He wanted to prove himself to Berwald. He wanted Berwald to think of him as one of them, and not just an outsider.

He wanted them to all call him brother.

He had no one else. Not a soul on the earth. He didn't want to be _alone_. He didn't want to spend the rest of his life being _ashamed _of himself. Belonging nowhere.

When the others started to stir, much earlier than usual, he waited until they had all gathered in the kitchen before he went into the bedroom.

He heard heavy footsteps behind him, but did not look back. He had a feeling about who it was.

Going into the room that he had shared with Lukas, he took up the bag that had been set upon the bed for him, and started to gather up what few things he owned.

Clothes.

A shadow fell over him.

Boots.

Someone watched from behind.

Magnus' money.

All he really had. As he knelt down and pulled the bag close, folding his clothes to fit them in, he heard a rumbling voice from behind.

"I'm glad."

His heart soared.

But, instead of showing it, he only kept his eyes on the clothes he stuffed into the bag, and said, coolly, "I haven't told you where I'm goin' yet."

Berwald snorted.

"Don't need to. I know."

"Oh?" he asked, casually, even as his veins lit up with adrenaline, "And how's that?"

"Cause," Berwald responded, simply. "If you were goin' off somewhere else, you'd've jumped outta the window when we were all sleepin'."

Well. Maybe that was true.

He snorted, and zipped the bag up. A movement at his side, and Berwald was hovering above him.

"I'm glad," he repeated, and reached out.

Berwald extended a hand.

The first instinct was to accept it with eagerness, and let Berwald yank him up to his feet and lead him downstairs, but he had two legs, and could pull himself up onto his own feet.

So he did.

Berwald tilted his head, stared at him, and then lowered his arm back down.

Ludwig liked Berwald. He wanted Berwald to admire him.

A good start to that was to put his foot down a little and let Berwald know that he didn't need someone to reach down and help him up off the floor.

He understood that Berwald liked being the 'leader', he _liked _being the protector and the guide, and he liked to watch over everyone in his group, even Magnus (although he suspected that Berwald would need about six bottles of vodka (or his death bed) before he would ever admit _that_). He liked to keep everyone close and safe. That was great. That was one of Berwald's most endearing qualities.

That gentle giant. That sentinel.

Ludwig could take care of himself.

It was a simple gesture, but some part of him wondered, had he taken Berwald's helping hand, if maybe Berwald would somehow have looked down a little on him for it.

Berwald wanted to pull him up because he was still considered the weakest. He hadn't done anything yet to prove himself. He hadn't had the chance yet to show what he was worth. Maybe if he had, Berwald wouldn't even have offered the hand in the first place.

Well, this was the real beginning of his time with them.

His first opportunity. His first chance. He wouldn't let anyone down. He wanted them to look up to him, and know that he was someone they could rely on.

When he was standing, Berwald looked him up and down, pushed his glasses up his nose, and asked, "Got everythin'?"

He nodded.

"Then. Let's go."

He'd follow these men, wherever they led him.

Well. Not _them_. Not all of them.

He'd follow Timo into the white Finnish forests. He'd follow Magnus to the edge of the abyss. He'd follow Lukas to the ends of the earth.

But he'd follow Berwald into the rings of hell.

The leader.

As a soldier, the first thing that had been beaten into his head, over and over and over again, had been to offer life and limb to the superior officer when he asked it, without ever questioning 'why'. He had been taught to obey the chain of command, to look to his leader in whatever circumstance and follow orders without hesitation. The honor and dignity of a soldier was only as good as his loyalty to his commander.

Respect. Obey. Honor. And above all else, follow.

Berwald was the leader.

Where Berwald went, he would go, too. He'd follow Berwald, wherever he led him.

Even if Timo sometimes usurped Berwald's authority to alter decisions as he saw fit and add on extra rules, or sometimes take a few off. Even if Magnus thought Berwald incompetent and inadequate and unfit to lead. Even if Lukas broke the chain of authority and went out on his own without ever telling anyone or asking permission.

_Berwald_ was the leader.

He was a soldier. A soldier's duty was to obey the leader. He'd been taught to operate as a unit, and a unit could only function under a commander.

Berwald was his commander now. He'd follow Berwald into hell and wouldn't worry about whether he'd come back or not. If he died out there in Estonia, or Finland, or wherever Berwald led him, then he would do so with dignity.

It was as simple as that.

This was the kind of situation in which he felt the most comfortable; under a commander and having someone use him and his skills to their full potential.

It felt good to be useful again.

He tossed his bag into the car, sat in the passenger's seat beside of Berwald, and said goodbye to another house that had been very close to becoming a home. He regretted losing it as much as he had the first.

Berwald's fingers drummed the steering wheel, and Ludwig placed his elbow on the windowsill, holding his chin in his palm and watching the house fading in the side mirror.

He watched it until it was gone.

Home, sweet home.

He could handle it, because in the end, wherever Berwald was...

That was home.


	10. Fair-Weather Friends

**Chapter 10**

**Fair-Weather Friends**

"Seasick?"

Lurching.

"Please...don't talk to me."

Up and down.

Berwald gripped the railing in his hands, staring out at the sea as the ship sank up and down in the breaking waves, the wind whipping so fast that it stung his eyes even behind his glasses.

The sea was a mellow green. The sky was a vibrant blue. Tufts of white clouds drifting by lazily. The smell of salt and clean air and a distant whiff of a forest.

Berwald loved the sea. Always had. Some of the best times of his life had been huddled up in a blanket in the tiny cabin of his fishing boat, listening to the sea banging just outside.

The feel of the lolling waves.

Magnus loved the sea. Lukas loved the sea. Timo? He loved the beach, but being on the water? Not so much.

Ludwig?

Berwald glanced over, to where Ludwig had sunk down below the railing, knees pulled up to his chest in an attempt to keep his body steady despite the rolling sea, and the paleness of his face (buried now in his folded arms) was a clear indicator that he was but one rogue wave away from vomiting.

Well, not everyone was cut out to be on the water. It would be over soon. It wasn't a great distance until the island.

It was easy for Berwald to stand here and watch the waves, even if Ludwig had turned into a huddled mass of misery.

He'd missed the sea. He'd missed the look and smell and feel of the water. A part of his life that had been set aside for this war.

Beneath the joy of being on the sea, there was something else.

A little depressing.

Even though he was glad to be back on the water after nearly a year, it had still been a little disheartening to leave behind that quiet little house that he had gotten used to.

Having a place to go to every night, after so many years of wandering, had been indescribable. Almost a home, as long as others were with him. He'd miss that, as much as he had ever missed the sea.

As hard as it had been for him, he could see the awful way that Ludwig had stared up at the house long after everyone else had gotten into the car.

They had tried so hard to break it to him easy. Days and days of looking at each other in the halls and whispering in corners about how they were going to do it.

Granted, it hadn't been the most eloquent of efforts. They could have done it a little better.

Ludwig had finally started to settle in, and now they had gone and uprooted him all over again.

It would be alright. He had faith in Ludwig, who had already taken difficulties in such good stride. He could do it again.

Ludwig would be alright in time.

The seasickness, however...

Not so easy to overcome.

A stifled moan of misery rose up above the roaring of the waves, and Timo, smiling widely, knelt down on one knee and placed a hand on Ludwig's back, patting him gently as he crooned, "Just keep your eyes closed, eh? It'll pass."

Ludwig muttered something that Berwald couldn't understand, and Timo burst into laughter and looked up at them, his smile as bright as the sun.

At his other side, Lukas was leaning over the railing, gawking down at the water as the ship cut through it, and Magnus was gripping a handful of his shirt, just in case he slipped.

What a group they made.

Ludwig finally lifted his head up from his arms, looked around a little blearily, and asked, weakly, "Are we there yet?"

Berwald snorted.

"Not yet."

The paleness of Ludwig's face, as sad as it was, still made him smile, and when they broke against a rather large wave, Ludwig inhaled a great, wavering breath and reburied his face in his arms.

It was wrong of him, sure, but it was kinda funny to see strong, broad-shouldered Ludwig moaning in misery and writhing in the churns of illness because of a few waves.

The soldier bested by the sea. Happened.

Magnus glanced over, still clutching Lukas by the shirt, and said, a bit callously, "I guess this is why you didn't sign up to be a Kriegsmarine, huh?"

A silence, as Ludwig gathered his breath.

And then a low, rumbling, almost pitiful, "Fuck _you_."

Magnus just tittered.

"Hold your breath."

"Don't do that," Lukas interjected immediately. "You'll get hiccups."

Ludwig ignored them, grumbling away in his arms.

Berwald turned his eyes back to the sea, leaning against the railing, and felt his mood sink a little, even as the others made pleasant chatter.

"Well, do you at least know how to swim?"

Gotland was finally visible over the breaking waves.

"I can swim _fine_. I just—urgh—I've never been on a—a ship."

This was just the beginning. The easy part.

Somehow, the blue sky suddenly looked a little grey.

He felt a little twinge of guilt, underneath everything else, because they all knew what to expect, and Ludwig did not.

Nobody ever wanted to tell him anything, for fear he might respond in a way they didn't want. Nobody wanted to scare Ludwig off. Ludwig knew that he didn't have to stay, that he didn't have to do anything they did, and that was why they played everything so coolly and worded things in a sweet manner.

They may have had their hand upon the chess clock, but Ludwig still had a queen up his sleeve in that they couldn't really predict exactly where his lines were.

The land drew closer and closer, and when Timo reached down and touched Ludwig's shoulder and said, "We're here," Ludwig let out a great sigh of relief.

The ship docked, slowly and carefully, and they started to make their way down to the end (Ludwig lagging a little behind everyone else as he struggled to overcome the lingering seasickness), so they could go down to the cargo hold and get the cars.

Ludwig stopped every so often, looked down at the lapping water below, and hissed air through his teeth.

Berwald could only imagine that he was staring down to see if Poseidon was below, so that he could lay into him for being a son of a bitch.

Well, it was over for now. Ludwig would dry out on land and get back together before they set out again.

The cars were in sight, parked amidst a few others, and as the gates lowered and the ship was bridged to the port, Timo and Magnus took the keys and split up to get the vehicles.

The rest of them walked off, and waited on other side.

Ludwig seemed glad as hell when his feet hit solid ground.

The cars crossed over, and they got in.

Lukas went straight over to Magnus, and it didn't really surprise Berwald much that Ludwig waited to see which car _he_ would go to and then followed behind. It didn't surprise him, and, well...

It didn't bother him either.

He looked back to steal a glance, and Ludwig smiled at him, a bit wearily. He was still white as a sheet, but seemed much more content in the car.

"Is it far?" he asked, as he leaned an arm against Berwald's seat, eyes taking in the sights of the island with a bit of excitement.

"No. It's pretty close. On the beach."

"Ah. Nice."

Ludwig didn't know.

Timo sent him a look out of the corner of his eye, and he shifted a bit uneasily, and turned away from Ludwig to stare straight ahead.

Ludwig's arm stayed there on the top of his seat for the whole ride. That didn't really bother him, either.

They drove in relative silence, not completely awkward, and every so often Berwald would look back at Ludwig, so close, and try to think of something to say.

But what was there to talk about?

The mountains that were gone? That would make Ludwig moody. The ship that they had come on? That would make Ludwig embarrassed. The house they were driving to? ...ha, that was the worst one. It would only disappoint Ludwig in the end.

So Berwald just sat there, glanced over his shoulder from time to time, and stayed silent.

Timo didn't.

Glancing up in the mirror, Timo got _that _look on his face (the sneaky one) and he asked, in a very smooth voice, "I like those new clothes, Ludwig. They look nice."

Ludwig leaned in, as restless as he was, his head poking in between the front seats, and said, "Thanks."

Timo glanced over at Berwald, and added, "Don't you think, Berwald?"

Berwald opened his mouth, and when Ludwig turned to look at him, he quickly lost his train of thought.

Damn. He hated being put on the spot like this.

Finally, he managed to say, a bit weakly, "Yeah. Looks good."

Ludwig seemed satisfied, but Timo wasn't done.

"You know, I think with those clothes and your hair back the way you do, you kind of look like a blond Clark Gable, right Berwald?"

Berwald narrowed his eyes and sent Timo a foul look.

Did Timo plan this stuff out or was it all just spontaneous? Either way, it was annoying as hell. Timo liked to see him squirm, and that was _not _alright.

Timo was unfazed at his glare and broke into a great smile when Ludwig, in a rare moment of almost Magnus-like vanity, reached up with his left hand to smooth back his hair, and it was obvious by now that his ego had been well-stoked.

Maybe Ludwig had been hanging around Magnus a little _too _much.

He'd have to put a stop to that.

And as soon as that thought crossed his mind, Timo pressed his luck by turning yet again to Berwald and asking, "I think he and Magnus could be in movies."

Timo's bright smile and the sudden tint of red on Ludwig's cheeks for some reason made him feel a bit morose. Maybe it was because Timo thought that Magnus and Ludwig were better-looking than he was, even if he had not said it in so many words.

Absently, he reached up and pushed his glasses up his nose, and as his fingers crept back down, they drifted across the slight bump on the bridge of his nose, broken long ago in some mostly forgotten bar fight. His hands were scarred. His hair never had really looked like he had wanted it to. Didn't care much for the sound of his own voice.

Well.

Maybe Magnus and Ludwig were more handsome, but so what?

Agitated all of a sudden, he grumbled, "Let's survive the war first, before we make any plans to go to Hollywood."

Timo's smile fell a little, at the tone of his voice, but Ludwig didn't seem bothered. Somehow, Berwald had a feeling that Ludwig would rather have gone right back into the war than go off into the very different kind of war that was Hollywood.

Timo was cut out for pictures far more than quiet, reserved Ludwig.

No matter how handsome Ludwig was.

Ah, hell. Now he was feeling self-conscious, a feeling he did not need to pile up on top of everything else going on in the middle of all of this. He wasn't a vain man, not in any sense, and so he couldn't say exactly _why _it bothered him so much.

...handsome guys like Ludwig never really gave the time of day to guys like him.

Where had that come from?

A quick nudge on his shoulder made him look back, where he came nearly nose to nose with Ludwig.

Ah.

"So this island is part of Sweden? Or is it by itself?"

He stared back at Ludwig, whose elbow was pressing lightly into his shoulder as he leaned above the seat, and it took a moment for his slow mind to get over the closeness and find his voice.

"No, it's Sweden."

Ludwig sat there, and didn't move, as if waiting for some other kind of explanation.

He may not have found any words, but, as close as Ludwig was, it did occur to him that in the center of Ludwig's white-blue eyes there was an encircling ring of gold. Flecks of darker blue within the iris.

A simple detail, maybe a strange one to take notice of.

Such details were _necessary _to him, because by noticing these little details the men around him were made _real_. They weren't just 'those guys'. They were more.

By noticing the sharpness of Magnus' cheekbones and the way the cut of his hair exposed the back of his neck and the particular aroma of his cologne, he wasn't just the loud-mouth with the bad aim and the messy clothes and the over-excitability.

He was Magnus.

By noticing the angle at which Lukas' feet hit the ground and the way his hands flowed when he was at work and the way his canines pushed out when he smiled, he wasn't just the weirdo with the distant eyes and silvery voice and impassive attitude.

He was Lukas.

By noticing the width of Timo's fingers and the dimples in his cheeks and the way that his neatly clipped bangs always fell right above his eyebrows, he wasn't just the small Finn with the short fuse and the cute face and a rather focused hatred for Soviets.

He was Timo.

And now, by noticing the complexity of the shades in Ludwig's eyes and the way his hair was so pale it was nearly white in the light and the way he shaved his sideburns in a long, neat curve, he wasn't just that Nazi with the deep voice and the quiet air and the broad shoulders.

He was Ludwig.

Hell, in a couple of months they would have been _with _Ludwig longer than without. He needed to observe things like that.

It made it so much easier to call these men friends, and by making them close by noticing things about them, it was easier to feel connected to them and willing to risk personal injury for their safety. In these circumstances, maybe getting close was a foolish thing, but if you couldn't fight for _someone_, then why even bother?

It was the only way he could keep the group together.

So, as Ludwig's eyes looked him up and down, he hoped that Ludwig was doing the same thing. Seeing and observing and remembering little things. He hoped that Ludwig saw Berwald, and not just the Swede.

Not just the leader.

As these thoughts ran hopelessly through his head, and as Ludwig's unrelenting gaze continued to catch his own no matter how many times he looked back, their destination came upon them without him really noticing it.

Only the sudden breaking of Ludwig's gaze and the lurching of the car gave away that they had arrived.

He turned his head, following Ludwig's eyes up to the pretty house before them. The pleased look upon Ludwig's face made him feel pretty damn awful.

Maybe he should have said something earlier...

Told Ludwig not to get his hopes up about Gotland.

The doors of the car clicked open, and he felt himself stepping out before he really realized that he was. The handle of the door was chilly beneath his palm, and when he looked over, Ludwig had settled in beside of him.

A smile.

Magnus and Lukas pulled in behind them, and suddenly they were all together again.

"So," Ludwig said, as the color slowly came back into his face from the voyage across the sea, "This is where we're staying? It's nice."

They shuffled their feet.

Berwald, for a moment, thought about placing a hand on Ludwig's shoulder and trying to word it gently. He froze, as usual, and stood still.

A silence, and Ludwig looked back at them, as if curious of their immobility.

Timo, as usual, took it upon himself to just say it.

"Eh, well, thing is..." He looked around, and then dropped his hands down at his sides, patting his palms on his pants. "Ah, hell, Ludwig. We kinda lied to you. We're not staying here. The guys got a place set up for us over in Estonia. We're stayin' there."

Just like that, the little bit of color that had come back to Ludwig was gone.

Timo tried to explain, as he always did.

"It's just—it's so hard to get across the water, so it's better to just get over there once and stay there, you know? Instead of going over and then coming back and then going over and then coming back... There's no sense in that. The cars stay here. We don't."

There was a long, uncomfortable pause, and Ludwig straightened up, brow low and face so serious again, and then finally he tore his eyes away from the house.

He didn't speak.

Berwald felt terrible.

Ludwig hadn't really asked for any of this. He was coming along now because he was alone and didn't have anywhere else to _go_. No home. No one waiting for him. How sad.

That was why Ludwig stayed.

"Well," Magnus said, taking a step forward in the drive, "Let's get the cars covered."

They moved, first removing all of the bags out and then taking the tarps from the trunks and making sure the cars were protected from the elements until they were needed again.

Ludwig just stared at Berwald, with that look of disappointment, and he couldn't find any words that would have helped either of them.

Evening was approaching. The waves were roaring off behind the house.

"Let's go down to the beach," Timo said, as soon as the cars were secure, and he walked down the path on the side of the house, Ludwig falling in right behind of him.

Suddenly, Berwald was alone, standing there beside the cars with his hands in his pockets and feeling ridiculous and sad and somehow like he had let Ludwig down, if only by not telling him everything.

Some leader.

Maybe that was why he hoped that Ludwig looked at him and saw Berwald, and not just 'the leader', because at times he felt like a really shitty one.

Finally, he found his feet and walked off in the direction they had gone, as the wind picked up and the sky grew darker.

The first sight of the beach, around the back of the hedges, was a welcome sight for his melancholy.

The break of the surf upon the sand, as the weeds holding the sand dunes together swayed back and forth and the clouds drifted by, already started to make him feel a little better.

The sea, that had appeared so vibrant from above in the ship, was now grey.

It didn't take him long to spot the others. They had taken their places against a large rock that jutted out from between the curve in the sand dunes, Lukas sitting rather happily on top of it. Timo and Ludwig stood before it, and Magnus had rolled up his pant legs and taken off his shoes to wander in the surf.

Broken seashells littered the sand beneath his boots.

The wind was cooler now than before, as the sun lowered down on the horizon, and stronger.

Magnus looked up from his play, eyes squinted in the wind, and it surprised Berwald that he was the first to address him.

"Hey, Berwald!" he called, his voice drifting in and out in the breeze, "Wanna go fishing 'fore we leave?"

Berwald stood still, hands in his pockets, and felt his brow raising up.

Huh. Magnus must have been in a damn good mood.

He opened his mouth with the intention of saying something smart (maybe, 'only if you're the bait') but Ludwig had looked back and was watching him, so he changed tune, even if Ludwig didn't understand what they were saying.

Tone spoke volumes.

"Not enough time. Maybe when we come back, we'll stay here for a while."

Magnus gave a short laugh, and carried on tromping through the wet sand.

Nobody needed to add, '_if _we come back'.

He walked down to where the others stood, and settled in at Ludwig's side as Timo smiled over at him. Ludwig shifted a little, uncomfortable as they spoke in a language he couldn't understand.

"You looked over the waters?"

Timo clicked his tongue.

"Well, Lukas and Magnus were messin' with the radio on the way here. They say the patrol's pretty loose today. East is mostly clear. We'll go that way and loop around."

"What are we gonna do with the boat?"

"Leave it," Timo said, quite simply. "The guys will drive back and figure out someplace to put it for us. We just need to worry about getting down the road without a problem."

"Roadblocks bad?"

"Not as bad as before, but still there. That's why we're walkin'."

Berwald wouldn't lie and say he wasn't nervous.

He'd never been to Estonia before. He'd crossed borders, but never on a boat. He'd have to leave this one to Timo and Magnus, and hope that they got them there without bumping into a Soviet patrol.

That would be a disaster. Probably a fatal one. So many things could go wrong on the water, and there was no way to flee like they could have on the land.

Ludwig had finally had enough of being kept in the dark, and turned to Timo with a stern brow.

"So when are we leaving?"

Timo tried to keep a casual smile, but it was a little hard to keep it up under Ludwig's relentless gaze, and finally he gave a sigh and shook his head.

"We wait until evening," Timo said, transitioning back to smooth German as he leaned back against the rock and watched the sea. "Once it's gettin' dark, that's when we go. They've got boats patrolling the waters, so we have to be quiet. We'll be kind of winging it—it's gonna be dark."

He looked over, a very serious expression on his face as he met Ludwig's eyes.

"We're gonna have to move fast and keep low. No lights."

Ludwig lowered his eyes to the sand beneath his feet, pursed his lips, and didn't say a word.

The waves lapped gently on the beach as the tide started to come in.

"It's gonna take all night. We'll get there by early morning. Once we land, we pull our boat up into a bay. We walk in the dark until we find the road. If we navigated right, we should find a little town. They'll meet us there. If all goes well. If we don't run into trouble on the water."

Timo sent Ludwig a very pointed look then, and Berwald could see that he was saying, silently, 'so don't get sick.'

Ludwig looked a little morose, and a little depressed, as he finally raised his eyes up to watch the grey sea.

Berwald could only hope that he could keep it together and not let them down, one way or another.

He had faith in Ludwig's abilities to adapt. But his ability to keep cool in a tight spot, in a dangerous situation in unknown lands with a foreign enemy that he had never fought? Not as much. Ludwig was young, and probably inexperienced. Only so much could be expected of him out here.

Who could ever jump into something like this and be good at it right off?

They'd been doing it since it all started, and sometimes even they were caught off guard. He was worried that Ludwig would freeze up and miss vital shots, or panic and wind up _getting _shot.

He was a little worried.

Settling himself beside of Timo against the rock, Ludwig crossed his arms over his chest, stared out into the horizon, and finally asked, "So. How do you guys find all of these houses?"

Berwald and Timo shared a look, and Berwald shrugged a shoulder.

"Luck."

Ludwig snorted, keeping his eyes on the roughening waves.

"That's a lotta luck."

"Well," Timo elaborated, "the one up in the mountains was luck. The other guys found us the one we'll be stayin' in over there. This one here belongs to a couple. They left so we could use it for a while."

Ludwig looked over then, one brow quirked.

"What, they left their home, just for you?"

Timo kicked a seashell, and smiled.

"Well, it's like they kind of loaned it to us for a while. Sometimes, when we look hard enough, we can find people who are, ah, sympathetic to the cause, you know? Not just us, but all the groups. Mostly it's young couples, that have just married. They'll go and stay with their parents for a while, and let the groups use their houses. They come back whenever they want, and when they do, we'll up and leave and give them their house back. You'd be surprised how many people are willing to help out."

Ludwig gave a quick, "Hm", and then looked around at them.

"So. Where's our boat?"

Magnus, still wetting his feet, raised his head, facing the breeze, and smiled.

"That's the easy part. Leave that to me."

Ludwig, not surprisingly, did not seem very reassured, but he fell silent all the same, and stood there.

They didn't talk much, simply watching as the sun sank ever lower.

Thinking. Planning. Preparing.

Dreading.

Magnus came out of the water when the sky started getting dark, and plopped down on the dry sand in front of Timo to pull on his boots.

Timo reached out with his own boot, when he thought that no one was looking, and prodded Magnus playfully upon the back. Magnus looked up, and sent him a look of false irritation. Communicating without words. A long stare.

They didn't think anyone was looking.

Berwald saw.

For once, he was too sick with anxiety to really fret about it. He had bigger things to worry about.

If they bumped into a Soviet boat, or their own boat ran into problems, or if they encountered hostile fire from the shore, and if so, if Ludwig got seasick again and couldn't shoot...

So many things. Getting over was the hardest part.

He was worried most of all about Ludwig, who in many way reminded him of himself.

The stars started to come out behind the pink of the setting sun. The air was colder. The wind was so strong now that it stung his skin as it whipped up sand.

The sunlight faded.

No one spoke anymore.

As soon as the sun was gone and night was starting, Magnus left the group to wander off alone, his boots sinking into the sand as he walked.

They stayed put, and waited.

A half hour, and then an hour, and Timo started to look out at the dark water with agitation, brow furrowed as he shielded his eyes with his hand.

The moonlight glinted off the waves.

As Berwald looked up at it, half-full and very bright in the cloudless sky, he wondered if maybe they should wait until the new moon.

Too much light.

He had just opened his mouth to suggest it when the whir of a motor came over the roar of the waves. They looked out into the sea, at the small boat that came racing up.

Timo pushed himself off the rock, and Lukas said, drolly, "I'll get the bags."

The engine on the boat shut as it pressed up into the sand. Magnus sat inside, and looked quite content.

"Like it?" he cried over the sound of the sea, and Timo just shook his head.

"Took you long enough."

"Patience is a virtue!"

"So is silence."

"Overrated!"

As Timo and Magnus sniped at each other from a distance, Lukas came trudging back, bags in either hand.

Ludwig stood there, on the sand, and looked like he was staring at a dead body rather than a boat. Well, one could lead to the other, in these times.

Minutes later, all of the bags were loaded, and a question was posed.

"So, who's gettin' wet?" Magnus asked, quite cheerily, as he looked back at them over the edge of the boat, the smile evident on his face by the light of the moon. "Water's cold as fuck!" he added, just because he could, and they shared a look.

Well, someone had to do it. The boat had to be pushed out far enough to not get swept back in the tide.

To Berwald's surprise, it was Ludwig who stepped forward.

"I'll do it."

"Sounds good to me!" Timo stated, as he hopped inside, and Lukas followed.

Berwald turned to look at Ludwig, who had bent down to remove his boots, and muttered, "S'alright, I can do it."

It was his job, perhaps.

Ludwig, pulling off his socks, just shook his head.

"I'll do it. You guys did everything else."

Alright then.

He took his seat in the boat, as Ludwig tossed in his socks and boots, and then grabbed the edge of the boat and started to push it back into the water.

Berwald heard his hiss as a wave broke over him, dousing him in what was surely alarmingly cold water.

A muttered curse he couldn't catch.

"That's good!" Magnus called back, as Ludwig had gone out nearly up to his neck.

A slosh of water and a rocking of the boat as Ludwig hoisted himself up and tried to climb inside. Berwald reached out and took up a handful of his wet shirt, hauling him in the rest of the way.

As soon as Ludwig settled down, dripping water all over the place and shivering, Timo took off his coat and tossed it over.

It was received gratefully.

Lukas reached back and cranked up the engine of the boat, after a few tries, and they were off.

Ludwig, shivering from the cold and trying to unroll his socks, only managed to fumble them.

"Goddammit!" he hissed, in agitation, as one of them fell right out. Grabbing the edge of the boat, he looked back over the water, and muttered, under his breath, "There goes my goddamn sock."

Timo pursed his lips to stifle his laugh.

Ludwig was not amused, and leaned back, already looking to be in a rather foul mood. Berwald couldn't really blame him.

He looked over from time to time, as Ludwig closed his eyes and bowed his head, and waited for the seasickness to start up. But, as the minutes passed, and then the hour turned into two and then three, nothing happened.

Ludwig didn't get that paleness of nausea. It didn't seem to come.

Berwald was surprised, but glad.

"You know," Timo whispered, as they cut through the waves, apparently thinking the same thing, "they say every boat has a different way of moving, and only a few of them make you sick. Maybe the big ships are worse for you."

Ludwig grumbled, "Let's not get on another one just to find out."

Up and down, up and down. The waves passed. No land visible. Just this little boat, rocking up and down in the waves, and the glimmer of moonlight on the sea. Out in the middle of nowhere. Exposed.

He hated that feeling.

Hours of endless water. Everything looked the same. The moon rose higher. It must have been midnight already.

Lukas had nodded off, chin tucked down into the collar of his coat as he slept, his quiet snoring lost amidst the sound of the waves.

Timo's head fell every so often, and he started and looked up, blearily, only to drift off again a few minutes later.

Berwald was tired, sleepy as hell, but he was too nervous to fall asleep.

Ludwig came in and out, Timo's coat slung over his chest and legs as he tried to sleep. He couldn't really seem to, and Berwald often looked over to find himself being stared at.

Only Magnus was wide awake, up front and grabbing the wheel as he read the compass in the light of the moon. He started to hum every so often.

So far, so good. No signs of Soviet patrols, but maybe they had not yet crossed into their waters. Only Magnus knew when that line would be reached, and then the engine would be cut.

Couldn't risk the noise.

Cold and tired and sleepy and miserable, those left awake looked at each other, and Magnus' humming drew Ludwig's attention.

A moment of silence, as Ludwig looked about at the vast sea and tried to gather his bearings.

"Whose boat is this?" Ludwig asked later, through a clenched jaw as he tried to keep his teeth from chattering with the cold, and Magnus glanced back at him.

A sly look.

"Don't worry about it. Let's just say we're _borrowing _it. Ah. Permanently."

Right. Borrowing.

"Great," Ludwig muttered, as he pulled his wet legs up to his chest and wrapped his arms around them in an attempt to warm up, "We're entering Soviet waters in a stolen boat."

"Ah, come on," Magnus said quietly from upfront, his voice barely rising above the breaking waves, "Where's your sense of adventure?"

Shivering away, Ludwig grumbled, irritably, "Back there in my fuckin' sock."

The rest of the journey passed in relative silence, until an hour later when Magnus stopped humming and looked up with a furrowed brow, and then, after a hesitation, silence.

The engine died.

No movement; Ludwig had fallen asleep.

Berwald looked over at Magnus, breath visible in the cold air, and asked, "We're here?"

"Yup," Magnus confirmed. "Time to get the oars."

He hadn't been looking forward to this part of the journey.

The oars were on the floor of the boat, and getting to them meant having to wake up those who sat above them.

Magnus came back, and reached out to prod Timo's shoulder. Berwald grabbed Ludwig's, and shook him.

Ludwig woke up in an instant, and the look on his face was very close to alarm.

"Did they see us?" were the first words that his sleep-shocked mind formed, and Berwald shook his head.

"No, it's fine."

Ludwig looked out at the dark water, eyes searching for something that wasn't there. When his mind and vision cleared and he realized that everything was alright, he relaxed, and fell back.

He didn't know the word for oar, so Berwald merely pointed below and said, "I need to get that."

Ludwig looked down, at the wood beneath his feet, and said, simply, "Oh."

He moved, pulling up his legs, and Berwald pulled the oar out. Magnus already had the other one.

They looked at each other, and Magnus asked, "Well, who wants to go first?"

"I'll do it," Ludwig said, yet again, and Berwald couldn't help but wonder if maybe Ludwig was just trying too hard to make up for his seasickness earlier.

Lukas, awake and alert now, interrupted, looking over each of them with those owl-like eyes of scrutiny.

"No, that's not a good idea. Me and Timo should go first. That way, when we get closer to the shore, Ludwig and Berwald can row. They can get us away from the water faster, if we run into trouble. Magnus navigates."

They looked around, and the matter seemed settled.

Timo and Lukas went to the sides, oars in hands, and Ludwig and Berwald had to shuffle to the back of the boat.

The peaceful sloshing of the waves was broken by the sudden splashing of the oars.

Magnus was quick to look back and chide, in a quiet hiss, "Not so loud. Easy goin', eh?"

As Berwald settled down, crossed-legged and squished very close to the luggage, he had the urge to mutter, 'easy for you to say!'

All Magnus had to do was sit down and steer. Already bitching.

He might have spoken, if Ludwig hadn't squeezed in at that moment. A shoulder pressed into his own.

Somehow, it startled him greatly when Ludwig fell back against the side of the boat in a manner that pressed him directly into Berwald's side in a very conforming manner, and yet, at the same time...

It didn't really surprise him.

Timo and Magnus leaned against each other all the time. So did Ludwig and Lukas. Lukas and Magnus. Magnus and Ludwig.

It didn't surprise him when _they _did it, but he _was _damn surprised whenever one of them did it to _him_.

Mainly because they never did. Magnus hated him and Timo was nervous of him and Lukas was just damn weird.

It was kinda nice.

So he sat there, and let Ludwig squish him up against the narrow end of the boat, and didn't say a word.

He hadn't had friends before any of this. No companions. No peers. No one who really remembered his name.

Ludwig paid attention to him.

The oars suddenly found their rhythm in the water, and it was easy to forget, at least for now, that they were in enemy territory. Cold air, the moon on high, waves lapping at the boat and the wind whistling in his ears, the salt of the sea and the endless horizon; it felt more like home.

Not war.

Ludwig nodding off right beside of him, chin down in his collar and eyes closed, didn't hurt anything, either.

The water glided by.

Time passed uneventfully, and for the first time, he started to drift. Kind of hard not to, as cold as the air was and as warm as Ludwig was beside of him.

He only closed his eyes for a second.

That was enough. Darkness, and he was out like a light.

It couldn't have been more than an hour, as strange thoughts barely had time to turn into dreams before he would start awake and the whole cycle repeated itself, and then someone was saying his name.

"Hey, Berwald!"

Blearily, he came out of the depths of sleep and looked up.

Timo and Lukas were staring back at him.

A whisper.

"Berwald. Look."

Confused and tired, he could only stare back at them, too dazed to really think.

A bright light suddenly broke out from within the darkness, and hit them. Only for a second, but the way Ludwig's hair lit up white and the way Berwald had to squint his eyes was enough to alarm him.

Ludwig woke up at the interruption.

The light was out over the water now, stretching out into the distance. A strong light meant a big ship. They looked over to the left, and everyone fell still. The oars stopped dead in the water. A ship drifted in the distance, a light atop swinging back and forth as it cut through the waves.

Red star. Soviet.

Magnus, for once, summed up the situation quite well by muttering under his breath, "Oh, shit."

They fell still, the boat rising up and down in the waves as they stared at the ship looming in the distance, and Berwald could only pray that they hadn't been spotted, that maybe the crew had been distracted when the light had come over them.

That maybe they were still safe.

Timo's hands were gripping the oar so tightly that his knuckles were as white as the moon.

Time to go, before the light swept back over. No point in risking a second exposure.

"Switch off," he muttered, as quietly as he could, as the ship floated in the cold sea and lurched along, its lights gleaming out over the water in a much more ominous way than the moonlight did.

Lukas and Timo fell back, and he and Ludwig, startled rather harshly from sleep, took over the oars.

It was hard to stay quiet, when the urge to panic and get away as quickly as possible threatened to take over. The oars seemed like they made far too much noise as they sloshed along, trying to keep in sync without becoming too desperate.

The ship drifted silently, and they passed it by from a distance, trying very hard not to make so much noise that the crew suddenly noticed them and swung the light back over.

But the water passed and passed, and the light never came back. If they had any luck at all, the sailors were probably too busy with vodka and beer to notice an entire fleet passing them by, let alone this tiny little boat.

Nothing happened.

They rowed on, and the first sight of land, black against the dark blue sky, was very nearly breathtaking.

His arms were aching.

Magnus tried to keep the boat on course as they sped up, and for an alarming moment Berwald realized that he could barely keep up with Ludwig's pace, when he saw Magnus twisting the wheel farther and farther to the left in an effort to keep straight.

He looked over, to see Ludwig sitting there, forehead shimmering with sweat and breathing as quietly as he could through his mouth, and his arms raised and lowered the oar in very quick, very aggressive strokes. No doubt just because he was terrified at the thought of being caught by the Soviet military, but even so.

All Berwald could really focus on was that he could not match Ludwig. He was slower. No matter how hard he pulled the oar.

That old nagging sense of insecurity came back up; that maybe he was being overshadowed by younger members. Unable to keep up.

Old man.

The land was closer, and he was glad when it was close enough to distinguish individual trees and sand. He was glad because Ludwig finally slowed down, and the pace was one that he could match.

Magnus held up his hand in a call for silence. They stopped.

Land was tantalizingly close.

Now there was the threat of boats as small as their own sneaking up on them before they had the chance to get away.

Magnus was standing up, looking out over the water and searching this way and that. When he saw nothing, he settled back down and whispered, "Go slow."

They did, creeping along through the water at an unbearable pace.

Almost over. So close.

The scariest experience, crawling towards shore and looking over their shoulders every few seconds to make sure that a Soviet boat wasn't rushing up behind them. The closer they got, the more the panic intensified.

Brush and high grass beyond the sand.

A cut into the shore curved and formed a little bay, of sorts, a patch of sand that was fairly hidden from the sight of the rest of the beach, and when they finally paddled into the still waters cradled by the land around, it was with great relief.

The sound of the boat hitting sand was as good as hearing his grandmother's voice all over again.

Base. Heaven.

Magnus, at the front of the boat, leapt out as soon as the boat was in the surf, his boots thunking down into the damp sand and the inch of water that came back and forth from the tide.

The oars were tossed into the bottom of the boat, and then the bags were hauled out into the sand, and they stopped for a moment to look around.

No one in sight. A ship light, but far in the distance.

"Let's go," Timo whispered.

They pulled the little boat up into the sand as far as it would go, hiding it as best they could amidst the trees to which Magnus quickly tethered it, and right when they were gathering up their bags and breathing sighs of relief, there was a rustle in the distance.

A faint motor. A boat coming up.

They dragged the bags up the shore and tried to pull them up into the brush, but were quickly forced to fall completely still.

Muffled voices. A light. Footsteps.

They froze up like statues where they stood.

Just because they were in a cove did not mean there was complete cover. By going up into the trees they had put themselves above the safety of the sand dunes.

No one moved.

Berwald could see, by the dim light of the moon that came in through the trees, that Magnus had covered his mouth and nose with his hand to stifle his breathing, as he crouched down on one knee. Timo and Lukas had disappeared behind the trees, hidden well away and out of sight. Berwald found himself half behind a tree and half out.

Ludwig, the last to trudge up the hill, was very nearly in the open, crouching down in some scraggly brush and despite his efforts to disappear, he was almost completely visible.

As the voices came closer, Berwald had an awful moment of anxiety.

He thought that Ludwig would panic, as apprehensive as he had been not so long ago, and make a commotion by trying to scramble behind the trees. Give them away. But Ludwig had fallen so still that his chest was not even moving for his very shallow, silent breathing, and he had squinted his eyes completely shut.

Not in fear.

Berwald recognized an old technique used by some of the Finnish resistance that fought back in the white forests. Ludwig closed his eyes so they wouldn't reflect light, should the flashlight sweep over him.

The training of a soldier.

Good.

...maybe he should have a little more faith in Ludwig. Hadn't let them down yet, at least not in anything that mattered.

After a while, the footsteps fell farther away. The voices faded.

Magnus' hand fell down, and he leaned up against a tree, and heaved a tense, silent sigh of relief.

Timo reappeared, and grabbed up his bag.

"Come on."

Ludwig's eyes finally opened, and Berwald could see, if only for a second, a look of weariness. Like Ludwig had already had his fair share of frightening moments.

That struck him, more than anything else. That he didn't know anything about Ludwig before that train. Who knew what he'd seen and done? What a shame, that in these great wars it was always the young ones that faced the most.

At this rate, it would be Ludwig who would be the old man.

They took up their bags, and followed Timo through the trees.

The road wasn't far.

Walking up on the road, even so early in the morning, was too risky to attempt, so they followed it from down below, staying close by the forest's edge in case they needed to duck in should a car pass.

An hour or so of walking, and the horizon became a little lighter as the sun prepared to rise.

Magnus, maybe in an effort just to break the silence, suddenly griped, "My feet hurt! How much longer?"

Timo grumbled back, "I can understand why you're tired, what with all the work you had to do in the boat. Turning a wheel is a real pain in the ass, isn't it?"

Luckily, for the sake of Magnus' well-being, by the time the sun had started to color the sky pink, the town they sought was visible.

Berwald could only be grateful that the road had been far less eventful than the water. No checkpoints. No cars. Nothing. Easy going.

He could smell smoke from chimneys as old women started rising to make bread and coffee.

Familiar, comforting scenery.

The town was tiny, not quite as small as the mountains from which they had come, but much smaller than the average community. In war, the smaller the town, the better.

They stepped onto the asphalt for the first time, and darted quickly across and into the small streets that led into the heart of the town.

Timo seemed to know exactly where he was going.

Small houses passed, and streets wound and turned, and Timo led them up a short drive towards a small, rather dilapidated house.

They hung back as Timo ran up to the door, just in case.

A quick knock.

They had been expected, apparently, and the door flew open before Timo even finished bringing down his fist. A man peered out, and there was a very short silence.

Timo smiled.

The door was pulled open, and the man waved a hand in the air to usher them forward.

Magnus trotted up first, and the others followed quietly, and wearily. As soon as the door shut behind them, the bags were set down upon the ground, and Berwald could see the rings of exhaustion beneath everyone's eyes.

Ludwig was still as pale as he had been the moment the ship had set sail.

Only Timo's attitude was not dampened, and the man suddenly broke into a wide smile, and held out a hand. Timo quickly knocked it aside and was upon him immediately, and they embraced with voracious enthusiasm, so much so that both of them wound up being lifted into the air by the other.

Blabbering away in either Finnish or Estonian.

His Finnish knowledge really only extended to pleasantries and curses. Now he kinda understood how Ludwig must have felt whenever they didn't speak in German. It was a little alarming, actually. Made you feel pretty vulnerable.

Especially when the man looked back at them, and was obviously inquiring about them.

"This is Eduard," Timo finally said, as he waved a hand over to the man, and Berwald was the first to take his hand, and give it a firm shake.

Timo led the conversation.

Lukas was next. Then Magnus.

From the corner of his eye, Berwald could see that Ludwig was shifting about this way and that, and no doubt he was dreading being introduced as, 'And that's Ludwig, a Nazi soldier.'

Ludwig didn't seem to realize that almost all of these men would _welcome _having a German on their side, not spurn him. An invaluable resource. Especially to a group as rag-tag and poorly equipped as the Forest Brothers, as they called themselves out here.

Sure enough, when Ludwig took Eduard's hand, Berwald clearly heard 'Nazi'.

Ludwig heard it too. Berwald could see it, just in the crease of apprehension in his brow.

Eduard stood there for a minute, and then he laughed, and shook Ludwig's hand twice as hard.

"Damn!" he suddenly exclaimed, in heavily accented German, "I was not expecting this!"

Ludwig looked mortified, and nervous.

Eduard ended the handshake, and slapped Ludwig on the back.

"Good to have you!"

It was lucky that Eduard spoke German. Lucky, but not too surprising. Considering that this war had been brewing for a long time, those countries that found themselves easily occupied seemed to make a point of learning the language of possible belligerents. Surely Eduard had found it prudent to learn both German and Russian in case it might save his life.

"Say," Eduard said, as he continued to hover above Ludwig, "What, ah, were you? Luftwaffe?"

"No," Ludwig responded, in a clipped voice, and left it there.

Berwald suddenly realized that the expression Ludwig's face was not nervousness at all. It was annoyance. That as soon as everyone realized he had been a German soldier, they deemed him immediately valuable. Not for his skills, but simply for his ethnicity. Thinking he had information that he most likely did not.

Ludwig was agitated at the response his being German received. Berwald shifted a bit, because he was guilty of such things too. Hadn't his first thought of Ludwig been that he was valuable simply because he was German?

Damn.

Eduard finally left Ludwig alone, and went back to Timo. They held a short conversation, and then Timo reclaimed his bag from the floor, and said to them, "Well, time to go again."

Berwald could see Ludwig's mood steadily sinking, as his brow fell ever lower and his lips pursed. His boots fell heavily as he followed them back out into the cold morning air.

"It's just down the street," Timo said, as they started to follow Eduard down the road.

'Just down the street', as it turned out, was actually more like 'completely on the other side of town'.

The sun was bright up in the sky by the time they came to the little house near the woods. It was as dilapidated as the other houses, maybe more so, alone on the outskirts of the town.

Overgrown with dead vines, and weeds.

The sight of the house seemed to make Ludwig's face fall all the more. Berwald couldn't blame him. It certainly wasn't anything like home.

Home.

"Forgive me!" Eduard exclaimed, a little apprehensively, as he pushed open the door and walked inside. "It's probably not nearly as nice as you were looking for. Best I could do."

"It's fine," Timo said, automatically, before he even had time to really observe the inside.

When the door closed behind them, it was with a sense of finality. Here they were. Their new lodgings, for who knew how long.

Bags thudded on the floor, and Magnus fell quickly upon the dusty couch. It was apparent no one had lived here for a long time.

Timo and Eduard stood off in a corner, speaking to each other in quiet voices, and Ludwig just stood there at Lukas' side, and looked around.

Defeated. Disheartened.

As the morning faded into afternoon, Timo and Eduard had settled into the kitchen, still chattering away as they sat at the table, and Ludwig and Lukas had teamed up to attempt to clean the dust from the house.

Berwald was stuck in the washroom, washing the sheets and blankets from the beds in very cold water, and with very little soap.

Magnus had fallen asleep on the couch.

There was no food in the house. Hardly any commodities. Only a little bit of soap, a few dingy cloths, a couple of buckets for water, and a few scrub brushes.

It was like starting over brand new.

When he went out of the washroom door much later and took the sheets outside to hang them, he saw Ludwig off to the side, sitting on the front steps alone.

Arms folded on his knees, he stared out into the distance, hair loose from hours of cleaning, and he looked absolutely exhausted. Or maybe that was depression.

His clothes were stained with sand and dirt and grass, and when Berwald came over and sat down beside of him, he could see the tiny cuts on Ludwig's hands that came from exposure to cold wind and salt and water.

"Feel alright?" he finally asked, as Ludwig stared at nothing, and Ludwig nodded.

Not really convincing.

He didn't press the matter, and let Ludwig sit in silence. Like in everything else, Ludwig just needed time to settle in and get used to being in a new place.

The forests beyond were not quite as comforting as the ones back in Sweden. Battles took place in these forests. Out here, living on the very edge of the woods was not always ideal.

"Later on, we'll go into town and try to find some food."

Ludwig nodded again. He didn't speak.

Eduard finally took his leave when it was late in the day, and bid them all a quick farewell, with the promise to meet up very soon.

As he left, he said, 'Don't worry about that boat. I'll take care of it.'

The boat was hardly a concern at this point.

Berwald's offer of going into town with Ludwig did not come to pass. Ludwig had busied himself with scrubbing the wooden floor clean of years of debris, and Lukas had recruited Magnus to help him swat cobwebs from the ceiling.

Timo had looked at him, and said, 'I guess I'm gonna go find us some food. Wanna come?'

Berwald had stood there for a minute, tired and a bit melancholy, and observed the cleaning going on around him. Ludwig's forehead was damp with sweat. Only the kitchen was done. The rest of the floors hadn't even been started yet.

So, he shook his head, and said, 'I'm gonna help with the floor.'

Timo, far from disappointed, smiled. 'Sounds good.'

With that, Timo had gone out, and Berwald had gone over to Ludwig's side when he started on the living room. When he took up a bristle brush, Ludwig had only glanced up at him, and they were both too spent to smile, so they only stared, and started scrubbing.

As he sat there on his knees, sleeves rolled up, a thought struck him.

How strange. The one time he had a chance to go off with Timo alone, and he had passed it up.

Why?

Because he was tired? Because the house needed cleaning? Because he was growing increasingly bitter of Timo and Magnus' closeness? Because he was wary of this new place?

Or because Ludwig was depressed?

He couldn't say, but he had passed it up.

Half an hour passed, and then an hour, and when the living room was complete, he fell back onto his knees, and wiped the sweat from his brow. Didn't look so bad now, as the floor shined with the last remnants of water that had yet to dry. The wood was not of terrible quality, and maybe the people who had lived here long ago had been well off.

Lukas and Magnus had wandered down the hall, dusting up the last of the ceiling. Timo was still out.

As he sat there, observing the work, Ludwig looked over at him, eyes tired and shirt wet, and he finally spoke, for the first time since all of this had started.

"Thanks."

Berwald shrugged a shoulder.

"Sure."

Ludwig sat there, falling back on the damp floor and crossing his legs so that he could rest his weary head up in his hands, and he stared at Berwald long after conversation had ended.

Just staring. He looked a little better. Not as listless and despondent as he had been earlier. Still not smiling, but not foul.

Berwald grasped it then, a little.

That was why he had stayed. Just for this. For the chance of making Ludwig feel a little better.

They were a group. They were obligated to each other, and even if it was something simple like pitching in to wash a floor, if it _helped_, then that was what needed to be done.

If just being here made Ludwig look a little less sad, then that was enough.

The sun was low in the horizon, and when Ludwig turned his eyes over to the bucket of water, Berwald was quick to say, "That's enough for today. We'll finish up tomorrow."

He was barely keeping himself upright, and everyone else had to be just as tired after being awake all night and all day.

To his relief, Ludwig conceded, and the bucket of dirty water was dumped outside. They all collapsed where they could, Ludwig and Magnus on the couch, and Berwald and Lukas at the kitchen table.

He rested his head for a moment, and the next thing he knew it was nearly nighttime and the door banged open as Timo came back from town, lugging bags of groceries and household necessities.

He started awake, vision blurry as he straightened up his glasses, and he heard conversation from within the living room. He didn't even bother getting up. Once Magnus and Timo started talking, there was hardly any stopping it.

Didn't care much anymore.

Lukas looked at him, his usually glossy appearance a bit ruffled, and he said, "I'll see if the sheets are dry."

An obviously hopeful statement. Everyone was ready to get to bed.

As well as they could.

Two bedrooms. That was it. The house was small.

_Very _small.

Only two beds.

That produced a very serious problem. Because it could only be assumed that Lukas and Ludwig would continue to share a bed, and that meant that it would end up in a battle between himself and Magnus over who got the other bed.

With Timo.

Someone was goin' on the couch.

He sure as great flying fuck wasn't sharing a bed with _Magnus_.

For a moment, as he slouched there at the table, he considered the notion that maybe he just wanted to annoy Magnus more than he actually wanted to be close to Timo. Timo and Magnus seemed to get more intimate every day, and his chance had long since passed.

...it was annoying, and it stung, but it actually didn't _hurt_ quite as much as he had thought it would. Didn't hurt much at all.

He had gotten over it, he realized.

Seeing Magnus squirm, though...

That was worth being stubborn.

When the groceries were put away, he felt himself drifting into the living room and looming there above the couch. They looked around at each other, and the vote seemed pretty much unanimous : sleep.

Maybe there was one exception.

"Well," Magnus said, in an effort to break the gloom, "I say we break it in, eh?"

With that, he reached into his bag, and produced a bottle of alcohol. Maybe it was just a half-hearted attempt to lift spirits, but Berwald was hardly in the mood.

And, for the first time, Ludwig looked over at Magnus, face gloomy, and said, "No thanks. I think I'm gonna go to bed."

"Me too," Lukas said, and Magnus' face fell a little.

Magnus looked back at him. He shook his head.

Tilting the bottle towards Timo, Magnus tried, "Well, what about you?"

Timo smiled.

"Sure, why not?"

Relieved, likely for loneliness, Magnus tossed the bottle into Timo's lap, and leaned back into the couch.

That wasn't the end.

As Timo took a swig, Magnus made another proposal.

"So!" he said, "Who's on the couch?"

They looked around at each other, each as reluctant to stake claim as the rest, and just when Berwald had opened up his mouth to say, 'I vote Magnus', Lukas came up with a creative, if not frustrating solution.

"Let's draw straws."

* * *

><p>Goddammit.<p>

Goddammit, goddammit, goddammit.

Grumbling to himself under his breath and shifting back and forth restlessly, Berwald wondered what god-awful thing he had done in his past life to find himself lying here in the cold living room, struggling to pull his long legs upwards so they wouldn't dangle off the end of the couch.

It musta been somethin' really shitty.

Clenching the blanket to his chin and fighting with the fabric, he found he just couldn't win. Pull it too high, his feet were exposed. Too low, and his chest was left in the cold.

Couldn't win.

This decision should have been made on a height basis. Next time, he'd have to open his mouth a little faster.

Hopefully this stay in Estonia would be a very short event. He was already sick of this place.

Tossing and turning, he finally had to sacrifice the warmth of his chest in favor of his feet, and rested his head. Finally, somehow, he managed to fall asleep. A fitful, restless one, but sleep nonetheless. It was only because he was absolutely drained that he managed any kind of sleep at all.

But being in a new place, back behind the borders and in a hostile land, only brought on those old nightmares. He had thought he'd finally left them behind. It had been a while.

It hadn't been something he had been looking forward to ever again. They were never the same, and yet somehow always equally frightening.

Sometimes, he was back in the house the day his parents had died. Sometimes, it was his grandmother, leaving him alone forever. Sometimes, that bleary memory of the bar. Sometimes, the forests of Finland or the borders of Norway.

Most recently, sometimes it was the train.

The nightmares always started quietly.

It usually came first right when he was stuck in that odd, dreamy state that was half awake and half asleep. A whisper, here and there, and sometimes he could swear that something was reaching out to brush his hair.

Things intensified once he fell into a complete, light sleep.

The whispers turned into voices, close by and yet not comprehensible, the darkness of night was lit up here and there by flashes of scenery and colors, and sometimes he smelled smoke.

In deep sleep was when it _really _started.

The worst ones were the ones where he was absolutely certain that he was awake, even if he wasn't.

The voices got louder. The scenery became clear. The color seeped in. The smells were very real.

And so were the faces.

It didn't take so long to see where this one was going.

A field. The smell of gunpowder on his hands.

He looked around, as he stood there alone in the snowy field, the moon high in the sky and a gun in his hand, and suddenly everything felt wrong.

A train horn in the distance. A sense of dread.

A hiss suddenly broke the tranquility of the landscape. Sparks. He looked down; a lighter in his other hand.

The air was cold.

He didn't remember lighting up the dynamite, but he could see the train suddenly steaming by, plumes of thick smoke rising up from the stack, and he could only stare at it, helpless. Watching the grey steel flash by, the great wheels grinding on the track, and it was a terrible feeling, knowing what the locomotive was heading toward.

The lighter and gun fell from his hands as the train left him behind.

He stared at the back of the train. No one there.

The wind blew.

The hissing of the dynamite suddenly stopped. A moment of complete stillness. Quiet. Calm.

Then the blinding flash, the ringing in his ears, and the searing heat.

An awful smell.

He shielded his face with his arms as the debris and the flames shot out across the darkness, and he could feel the residue of ash and smoke clinging to his hair.

Then everything was quiet again. Tranquility. Gentle wind. When he finally lowered his arms, there was nothing. The field suddenly melded back into the living room of this dingy little house.

The train was gone.

Just him, standing in the center of the house and looking around in a growing panic. Confusion.

A creak on the floorboard.

He stood there, frozen in place, as the curtain fluttered about, even as there wasn't any wind anymore.

The shadows shifted. As he stared into the darkness, the moonlight staining the wooden floor a dull white, the curtain floated up.

Footsteps.

Another smell suddenly drifted out from the shadows. A smell much worse than gunpowder. A smell he was very familiar with; decayed flesh. The forests of Finland gave it off every time the wind blew the right way.

A boot suddenly thrust out of the darkness and into the light cast down by the moon.

He couldn't even move. Stuck in place. His ears were still ringing from the explosion.

Another boot came out, and settled down by the other one. A silhouette. Moonlight upon pale hair.

He stood still, and closed his eyes, hoping that when he opened them again there would be nothing there.

A step, and then another. The smell was stronger. The awful sound of boots thudding down on the wooden floor in strange, unsteady movements.

He couldn't help it; he opened his eyes.

He wished he hadn't.

A soldier stood before him, staggering out of the nothingness beyond and straight towards him. Behind him, he left behind a trail of blood and ash.

Berwald took one long step back, and realized, absurdly, that he was barefoot.

The figure just kept coming, head bowed and slumped over as he dragged a leg along, hobbling across the room. The soldier suddenly looked up, and Berwald could see only his eyes and teeth, white in the moonlight. Everything else was pitch-black. Burnt beyond recognition. No skin left. The dull-green uniform was still smoldering.

Another noise behind him made him turn his head.

A second soldier tottering out of the darkness, and then another, and then another. Each in worse condition than the last. Soldiers that had not made it out of the train. Unarmed men. Sleeping when they'd died. Guilty of nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time.

Skin and burning patches of clothing dropped off as they stumbled toward him. Quiet moaning. Their fingers were thin and sharp—just bone, with a few clinging chunks of flesh.

He didn't move. He closed his eyes, just for a second.

Everything changed again.

The moonlight turned into smoke. The walls turned into fire. The floor turned into grass and mud.

In the distance, he could hear the train grinding along the tracks on its side, forced down by the unyielding strength of the explosion.

The soldiers stood all around him, lurching steadily closer. Surrounded on all sides.

The melting snow crept over his toes.

The soldiers came closer. Nowhere to run. He looked around at them, shoulders slumped in defeat, and when they started whispering in garbled German that he couldn't understand, he nearly laughed.

Well, this was fitting.

Giddiness. He felt lightheaded all of a sudden.

The soldier in front of him reached out, his hand quivering in the air as he struggled to grasp a hold of Berwald's shirt. Where were they going to take him?

A horrible screeching in his ears.

It didn't matter. He'd created this pit.

Burnt fingers inched steadily closer.

The icy water beneath his feet started to sting.

Where was he? The sense of despondency was turning into claustrophobia.

A hand suddenly reached out and touched his hair from behind. Too much. He _felt_ it. The brush created a great flood of panic. He broke free of immobility, struck out in desperation and terror, and the back of his hand connected with something very hard, and very real.

"Ow!"

For a terrifying moment, he was certain that his dream had become something more.

When he started upright, squinting in his eyes in the bright light, it was not because of fire, and it was not a charred soldier standing above him.

He couldn't see at first.

He was glad when he could. No dead soldier. A live one.

It was just Ludwig.

Ludwig, who had survived the fire of the train.

He couldn't see that well, but he knew it was Ludwig. The gleam of the hair, the now familiar stature, and the smell of his clothes.

Stunned, Berwald sat there, trying to get a grip on his surroundings. No more smoke. That terrible smell was gone.

A low whisper, as the bright sunlight of morning broke through the windows, and immediately he was mortified when he saw that Ludwig was rubbing his eye.

He had hit something, alright. He'd whacked Ludwig, right in the face.

He opened his mouth, but Ludwig beat him to it.

"Sorry! You alright?"

He slumped over and reached down, attempting to locate his glasses on the floor.

"Here."

Glancing up, he could see (if not blearily) that Ludwig was holding out his glasses.

He took them, with a low, grumbled, "Thanks."

How embarrassing.

Once he shoved his glasses up on his nose and his vision cleared, he looked over at Ludwig, kneeling down on one knee, and he could have sank into the floor for how awful he felt. For hitting Ludwig, sure, but the dream didn't help, either.

Ludwig was staring at him with a low brow of worry, and when Berwald reached up to wipe his hair out of his eyes, he could feel that he was soaked with cold sweat, his chest rising and falling as he struggled to catch his breath.

Ludwig watched him, and asked, again, "You okay?"

He found no words. He was, and he wasn't.

His knuckles hurt.

Aw, hell. Great way to start the day, smacking a friend in the face. But damn. He was _so _glad that Ludwig had shaken him awake.

So glad.

"I'm sorry," he said, as soon as he could, and Ludwig just scoffed.

"Don't worry about it. I've been hit a lot harder than that."

Even so, he could see the flush of red beneath Ludwig's eye that was already starting to turn a little dark.

"Sorry," he muttered again, and was waved off again.

"My fault," Ludwig continued, "Looked like you were havin' a pretty bad mare, huh?"

Silence, as Berwald rubbed at his aching head.

"A what?"

Ludwig smiled a little, half-heartedly. "Nightmare, I mean. That's what my brother used to call them."

"Oh." He shifted on the couch as he pulled himself up into a more comfortable position, and he quickly noticed that Ludwig seemed quite content to stay right where he was.

With his glasses, he could really observe him. He was surprised.

Ludwig was usually primped and preened in the morning, clothes neatly ironed and hair combed and glossed, taking great care to shave and smooth everything out before he came out of his room.

He hadn't even bothered this morning. Clothes disheveled and wrinkled, hair loose and messy and dull with salt from the sea, unshaven and very pale, he looked tired and sad and a little distant. Miserable. Lonely.

Berwald imagined that they looked very much alike. Mirror images.

Ludwig's hand was up on the arm of the couch to keep his balance as he crouched.

The hand that had touched his hair.

Yeah. Some mare.

The word 'brother' had dropped so longingly from Ludwig's mouth. Ludwig missed his brother. That was why Ludwig sought him out so often, and didn't seem to mind being in very close proximity. Seeking a replacement.

That made the most sense up in his head, anyway.

As they stared at each other, Ludwig's hand fell down, and he said, "I can sleep on the couch. It doesn't bother me."

"I'm alright," he responded, but he appreciated the thought.

He really did.

Finally, Ludwig pulled himself up to his feet, and stood above.

"Well, let's take turns, then."

"We'll see."

Ludwig nodded his head, and wandered off into the kitchen.

He was tired enough to go right back to sleep, but instead he hauled himself off the couch and followed Ludwig.

Who wanted to be alone all the time? It was kind of nice to hang around Ludwig, and when he stepped into the kitchen, probably looking like death itself, the smile that Ludwig sent him made it obvious that the feeling was mutual.

Speaking aloud what Berwald had been thinking, Ludwig suddenly stated, very casually, "You look like shit."

He sent Ludwig a narrow-eyed look, as eggs were cracked over a pan, and finally he replied, as he started to cut bread, "Look who's talkin'."

Ludwig just snorted.

He was glad that the others hadn't come out yet, because it might have been a little embarrassing for the both of them to be seen in such a disheveled state, rubbing at their eyes as they attempted to make breakfast together for the first time.

A satisfying feeling.

Ludwig looked at him a lot. He hadn't figured _that_ one out yet.

As the minutes ticked by, it was becoming increasingly apparent that he was probably making more of a mess than he was helping, and surely Ludwig noticed it too. He didn't say anything, and just shook his head from time to time. Didn't even chide him when Berwald fumbled a plate of eggs straight on the floor.

Instead, Ludwig only glanced down, and said, matter-of-factly, "That one's yours."

Ha.

He cleaned up the mess, and saw Ludwig's smile. Finally. He didn't look so sad now, and Berwald was glad for that.

Their moment in unison was interrupted half an hour later, when Timo and Magnus woke up and decided to join the realm of the living. He almost wished they hadn't. He hated remembering that they slept in the same place now.

Or perhaps he hadn't liked being interrupted when he was with Ludwig.

"Berwald's up already?" Timo teased, as he stumbled unsteadily into the kitchen, Magnus hot on his heels, and his smile was wide.

Berwald sent Timo a look, and didn't say a word.

As Timo smiled at him, he made a point of turning around and returning his attention to Ludwig.

...eh. Who cared? Timo's smile didn't put him in a better mood. He found his interest in Timo steadily waning.

He grabbed up used bowls, and chucked them a bit harshly into the sink.

Timo's next statement made his agitation dissipate into absolute horror.

"What happened to _you_?" Timo rasped, as soon as he caught sight of the bruise forming below Ludwig's eye, and Berwald reached up his hand to rub at his forehead in embarrassment.

Ludwig stood there for a second, and then he said, quite seriously, "Berwald whacked me one 'cause I woke him up too early."

Oh, God.

Timo and Magnus stared at him, Magnus' mouth hanging open and Timo's eyes quite wide.

A silence. He could have _died_. Absolute mortification.

Ludwig looked back and forth at them, and then snipped, "That was a joke."

"Ah."

Timo's face relaxed into a smile, and Magnus shook his head.

As they giggled a bit stiffly, Berwald wasn't sure what the worst possibility was. That Ludwig was just so serious that they had believed him, or that they had believed it because they really thought him perfectly capable of such a thing. Maybe it was a little bit of both.

That hurt.

"Well!" Magnus stated, as he raised his arms above his head in a stretch, "Since you guys are still busy, I'm gonna go outside for a while."

"Me too," Timo chirped.

Agitated and a little wounded, Berwald snapped at them as they went, "Why don't you make yourselves useful and start rippin' down some of those vines on the house?"

It had been a long time since his voice had been so harsh.

Timo called back, somewhat anxiously, "Sure thing!"

He was glad he had startled them. His feelings had taken a bit of a hit with that one.

Jerks.

Everything was quiet then, as Berwald finished rinsing off the bowls and tossed them down upon the counter in a huff. When he glanced up, Ludwig was looking at him with a high brow and a ghost of a smile.

"Well," Ludwig said, as soon as the door had shut, "You've really got them all under your boot, don't ya?"

Yeah, sure. They were _scared _of him, when it really came down to it, one way or another. He didn't even know why. He didn't understand.

"It wasn't really my plan," he muttered back, as Ludwig wrung his hands dry on a cloth. "Guess I scare 'em."

"Ha."

Ludwig's bark of laughter surprised him a little. He had expected Ludwig to say, 'Well, you _are_ a little scary.'

Instead, Ludwig looked over at him, and gave him a very scrutinizing once-over.

"I'll have you know," he drawled, as he walked over towards the threshold of the kitchen, "It'll take a little more than you just bein' tall, dark and handsome to scare _me_. Now, I'm gonna go make sure that they're doing whatever you told them to. I think I can be scary, too. Watch the food."

With that, he straightened his hair in a flourish, and was gone.

Ludwig, making light of their wariness of him. Stoic, awkward Ludwig's way of saying, 'What's there to be scared of?'

He understood. He was grateful.

...handsome, huh?

That made him reach up and pull at his collar in self-satisfaction.

He recalled his first thought from earlier. Waking up by hitting a friend.

Friend.

A strange word, after so many years alone, and yet that was really the only way he could come up with now of describing Ludwig when he thought about him.

A friend.

As he watched Ludwig wander off outside to fuss at the others, he tucked his hands in his pockets, leaned back against the counter, and he almost smiled as the door shut.

He was glad that Ludwig had woken him up. He was glad that Ludwig had lingered to see if he was alright. He was glad that Ludwig had bothered to ask at all. He was glad that Ludwig did not see him as a threat.

He was glad that Ludwig _cared_.

Sometimes, it felt like Ludwig was the only one that did.

Lukas had been right. Maybe it was fate.

Because with every passing day, he was more and more grateful that Ludwig had wound up here with them. He could barely imagine now what it would have been like without him.

He was glad, above all else, that Ludwig was here.

_His_ friend.

The food burning on the stove behind him didn't even catch his attention, as he stared at the door long after Ludwig had gone outside.

No one had ever called him handsome.


	11. Cry! Cry! Cry!

**Chapter 11 **

**Cry! Cry! Cry! **

He had known all along that he had been putting himself into danger by coming with then.

Always had.

Still, maybe Ludwig had been naïve to think it wasn't going to happen so _soon_.

Estonia was nothing like Sweden. No more nights of sitting up and drinking as they shared stories. No more leisurely moments of relaxation. No more wandering around town with Magnus. No more flowers.

And no more practice; suddenly, when the rifle was in his hands, it wasn't fun anymore, because now he was expected to use it, and if he missed this time, then it was not a glass he was leaving forlorn.

He was leaving one of his friends, a brother, hanging out to dry.

There was still a group sitting around cleaning guns, alright, but not the same ones. Timo's friends, men he didn't know, often joined them, sitting there and smiling as if they were just going about another normal day.

It had been snowing here lately.

They had only been here for three days before they had gone out for the first time.

Out. Sounded easy enough.

And, at least in theory, maybe it was. Timo's friends moved supplies and equipment through the forests, and they were expected to make sure the path was clear, both ahead and behind.

Not too hard.

It had been rather nauseating, the first time, pulling on those white boots and that bulking white coat, shoving his rifle into a white fur sling, and making sure that nothing on him would stand out. Even his shoelaces were white. White gloves. Timo and Magnus and Timo's friend, whatever his name was, took turns passing around a jar full of white pigment and spreading it under their eyes to shield off the bright glare of snow.

Lukas was quite happy to smear it under Ludwig's eyes the second he had a chance to.

Berwald didn't use it.

The smell of it was deceptively pleasant; chalky.

He felt out of place. Agitated.

White.

Everything was white.

Magnus, whose hair was perhaps the darkest blond amongst them, pinned it up well and away under the hood of his coat.

Wool masks, white, were promptly used to cover faces up to the bridges of their noses.

They'd meld into the white of the forest, sure enough, and no one would know they were there until it was too late.

The group they escorted was a little bigger than Ludwig had imagined. A good fifty of them were moving about that day, and it had suddenly become an enormous pressure, to know that these men had entrusted their lives into his hands.

If the others were nervous, they gave away nothing.

Magnus looked a bit anxious, perhaps.

Timo was the one who took charge here, knowing these men and these forests better than anyone else, and Ludwig wouldn't lie and say that he wasn't disappointed with the way Timo had split them up.

He had wanted to go with Berwald. His first thought, but Berwald was more experienced, and when there were two snipers, it made sense to have one in the back and one in the front. A regrettable circumstance, but one he accepted.

Berwald went alone. Timo and Magnus took the middle. He and Lukas in the back.

He wanted to go with Berwald.

Berwald being alone in the front, with no backup, was a source of constant concern.

Everything, come to think, was a great concern; Berwald being alone out ahead, the fact that Magnus couldn't shoot, Timo's sometimes reckless aggressiveness towards the Reds, the grenades that were tucked inside of Lukas' coat in a neat line, his own inexperience.

The fact that he was the very last, and therefore the most likely to get mixed up and lost within the endless trees.

The fear of choking.

The first time had been the worst.

As they had prepared to go, so _many _white figures, Berwald stopped beside of him, and put a hand on his shoulder.

They all looked alike, but he knew it was Berwald, as much as Berwald had known to whom he was speaking.

A low whisper.

'That's a good gun—I wouldn't let ya go out with it if it wa'n't.'

He had only looked up at Berwald, their eyes meeting beyond the white masks, and had said, 'I know.'

He trusted Berwald.

The group had gathered up their supplies on the outskirts of town, grabbing crates and poles painted white, filed into line, and started moving after Berwald had tread off a good ways.

The forest stood tall and imposing. Every creeping inch towards it had seemed like an eternity.

He waited, after everyone else had gone in, and when he could no longer see them with his bare eyes, he stepped into the trees, and followed.

Some part of him wanted to turn tail and run in the opposite direction, but he pushed onward, keeping his chin up and his hands still and his eyes alert, because they had trusted him.

Berwald was inside these trees, far more alone than he was, creeping into uncharted territory without fear. He'd follow, wherever Berwald took him. No matter how fuckin' scary it was.

The snow and twigs had creaked beneath his feet. He put his scope up, found Lukas ahead of him, and began the journey.

Keeping the flank was almost as bad as it must have been keeping the front, knowing that it was his job to make sure no one, no one, snuck up on them. More frightening, perhaps, because instead of leading it was necessary to make sure that he didn't stray so far behind that he found himself alone and lost. He knew that Lukas checked quite often to make sure that he hadn't been left too far behind.

A comfort, he supposed.

The first time was the worst, although it had been the most uneventful.

It wasn't until the third time moving these men through the forests that they had encountered Red Army soldiers lurking in the brush.

The first time the gunfire had broken out in the forest, Ludwig had jumped so terribly that he had nearly fumbled the rifle straight to the ground, and it was like _that _night all over again.

Helplessness.

It took him a moment to realize that he was in a forest, not in a street, and _that _night had long since passed.

This gunfire was for freedom, not fear.

He came back, quickly, and carried on without a second thought.

The only thing that frightened him in here was the thought of Berwald getting hurt.

He could distinguish the quick, frequent bursts of Magnus' gun from the slow, powerful blasts of Berwald's rifle.

He'd gunned down two men that day. The first time he'd killed someone since then.

A terrible feeling, even though these men were enemies. To see them so clearly in the scope before he shot them was no pleasant thing, knowing that these men were following orders, just as he had been expected to. Knowing that they had families waiting back at home.

Knowing that every time he fired his rifle, somewhere out there a house became a little emptier.

Best not to think about it too much.

When they cleared the forest and made it to the other side, it was always with relief.

The journey back was made through towns, not the forest, and they stripped down their white gear, cleaned their faces of the talc, and hitched a ride back with Timo's friends. The trunks had removable panels, where everything was hidden safely underneath, just in case they came across a military check or a roadblock.

The next time, the cycle continued.

Whatever these men did on the other side of the forest, whatever they were up to, it obviously wasn't a secret to the Soviets. They never used the same path twice. Same thing, different way. That was all.

They'd been here for a month already, and Ludwig had already had his fill of this place. He wanted to go back to the little house in the mountains.

Berwald had been quieter than usual since they had gotten here. Looked stressed. Tired. Ludwig tried to engage him from time to time, when the others were trying to be normal, but sometimes even he didn't feel much like trying.

Usually, Berwald just looked at him, eyes heavy, and didn't say a word. They sat together, side by side, listening to Timo and Magnus messing around the house, and sometimes Ludwig wished that he could just throw an arm out and put it around Berwald's shoulders.

If only to let him know that he had a friend. Someone who would miss him if something happened.

One night, Berwald spoke to him, and said, drearily, 'I almost got lost. If I had—I'd'a left them there, with no cover up front. I woulda let 'em down. I'd've been out there alone.'

Berwald getting lost in that massive forest was _terrifying _to him.

'Well, you didn't,' Ludwig finally said, 'So no harm.'

Berwald had seemed shaken all the same.

'We wouldn't have left you, if you had gotten lost, you know. We... _I _woulda looked for you. No matter how long it took. I couldn't ever leave, knowing you were in there all alone.'

Berwald looked over at him, still so sad, and only gave a scoff.

'Thanks, I guess. Ha...how many did _you _kill today?'

Ludwig, voice suddenly just as dreary as Berwald's, replied, 'Four. You?'

'Five.'

It was a rather morbid tally, but one they kept all the same. Although it would have been nice to forget, it was somehow still important to keep track of how many men they killed, perhaps to know afterwards just how much recompense they would have to make. If the tally of men they saved could be greater than those they killed, if it could be worth it, somehow...

Never felt worth it.

At least not to him.

Timo and Lukas really seemed to be the only ones who were convinced they were actually accomplishing something.

Berwald looked uncertain at times, but never faltered.

Magnus just looked _sick _all the time.

Had to be worth it.

So, Ludwig had just turned to Berwald, and said, 'Well, I guess there's not much of a choice.'

Berwald hadn't responded, not verbally, but Ludwig had realized afterwards that Berwald had closed the distance between them and was pressing up against his side.

Everyone needed a little comfort sometimes, whether they could say it or not. Lukas often pressed himself into Ludwig's side these days, more than he had before, and Timo and Magnus were practically arm-in-arm every second they were together. Ludwig sought out Berwald, and Berwald never walked away when it was apparent someone would pay him attention.

Reassurance.

If he had been braver, Ludwig might have reached up and wiped Berwald's disheveled bangs out of his eyes.

He didn't.

Although he knew that every day was a risk, that every time they went out was a time one of them might not come back, he couldn't bring himself to act upon any of the thoughts that crossed his mind.

He wasn't bold enough.

Some of the things that crossed his mind, granted, might not have been exactly considered appropriate, although he wouldn't deny that they were there all the same.

Sometimes, Berwald was so hard to read.

Maybe...

It might not have been the way that Ludwig was interpreting it. God, that thought was worse than any other, that this thing he had built up in his head was not really what was happening. Misreading, as he was prone to.

It had all started the moment that Berwald had extended his hand in kindness, and engaged him that night, when the others had taken instead to teasing him.

No one had ever truly been nice to _him_, not to him, not unless they were being nice to Gilbert.

It had been an innocent gesture, surely, and Ludwig hadn't really thought more about it.

But then Berwald had started hovering over him, had started paying attention to every little thing he did, had made a point to interact with him above all others, had taken such an _interest _in him. Berwald had been there, every time he had turned around.

He had started thinking.

Well, he had little knowledge of such things, but he had watched Gilbert going after girl after girl, and always, it had been the same pattern.

First, brash Gilbert had diluted his personality, actually sparing kind words that he never used otherwise. Then, he would start to bring the girl home, paying her every attention that she could have ever wanted, no matter whether or not it was excessive. Afterwards, Gilbert would bring her around even more, and would hang around her every second, always so interested in everything she said, and Ludwig would wait to see if it worked out. When it didn't, the cycle repeated itself.

And, well...

It might have been a coincidence, might have been a cultural difference, hell, he might have just been imagining things, but it _felt _the same.

The way Berwald acted had reminded him of the way Gilbert had acted.

Was he making such a mental stretch?

That night they had gotten him drunk and tried to pry information out of him, he had been mortified all right, but not because he had a girl waiting back home—he had been mortified because he couldn't very well have said, 'I don't have a girl waiting because I was just never that interested in them.'

Not to men he didn't know well.

And Christ almighty, _never_ would he have said such a thing to Gilbert, not with Gilbert's SS friends running around. He'd've wound up in a fuckin' camp somewhere with one of those pink triangles branded on his chest.

A horrifying thought.

But Berwald hadn't really seemed all that interested in women, either, did he, and Magnus had proclaimed so confidently that Berwald was a bachelor for life.

Maybe. Coulda been that Berwald was the same as him. If so, was it really just in his head?

He had always thought that Berwald was handsome, that had never been a question in his mind, but it was much harder to figure out if Berwald's interests were extended in such a way to himself.

They looked at each other frequently. Berwald came to him before anyone else. He was the one whose shoulder Berwald placed his hand upon. Hadn't seen him do that with anyone else.

It couldn't have been in his head.

Could it?

It could have just been hope. It could have been his lack of knowledge of human relationships. Could have been wishful thinking on his part. Maybe he had gotten himself so _stuck _on Berwald that he was connecting dots in his head that just weren't there.

The way his chest burned and his stomach squirmed were so strong that it was likely he just wanted Berwald to feel the same way to keep his pride and because his hair-trigger emotions might not have handled rejection well.

Gilbert had always wondered why he hadn't fallen in love with anyone, because the teenage years were supposed to be the ones where you fell hard and fast and without reason.

Ludwig had assumed that just wouldn't happen to him, nearing on twenty and having yet to be struck down by that odd affliction Gilbert had called 'love'.

If this was it, it was hard and fast, alright, and every bit as irrational as Gilbert had made it out to be.

He kept it to himself, and tried not to make it obvious.

If he was wrong, oh God, there would have been no getting over that humiliation. No regaining his pride. He would have ditched them that very day, affection and brotherhood be damned, if Berwald had laughed at him. If he had extended his hand to Berwald, only to have it slapped away with a look of disdain, he would have packed his things, left the rifle lying on the couch, and he would have 'borrowed' his own boat and rowed all the way back to Gotland, stolen one of the cars, and disappeared into the mountains of Sweden. He couldn't ever look at them again, not with that shame over his head.

Better to keep it a secret, and just stare from afar.

No matter how badly he wanted to touch.

Those kinds of thoughts were ones he did not have the courage for, and so, when Berwald leaned up against him, he kept his arms still, and just enjoyed the warmth.

He had to be sure, absolutely sure, before he lifted his hand.

Frustration.

* * *

><p>Days came and went, and so did men.<p>

Falling.

The snows came and went as much as men did. Some days they dressed all in white. Other days, when the snow had melted, they dressed in brown, and it was mud they smeared beneath their eyes.

It had been a long, arduous day in the forest, this time wearing dark colors, and they had emerged from the other side with less bullets than they had started with.

That night, the tone was dreary.

Nobody was in a good mood. Nobody seemed able to raise their eyes up from the floor. Even Lukas, unshakeable Lukas, seemed a bit silent and dour.

They had a talk that night, after drinking had gotten well under way. The conversation hadn't been one that Ludwig had wanted to hear.

Wind, beating on the windows.

Timo was drinking hard, and it was no wonder why when he opened his mouth to speak.

"Lost three of 'em today. Damn—I had one of 'em right there, right there, and I still lost him. Fuckin' bullet had the whole damn forest and still found him."

Not the first time they had lost any, but it didn't make it any easier to handle.

To let someone down.

Another empty house.

Ludwig and Lukas had lost four so far. Berwald, three. Timo and Magnus, stuck in the middle, bore most of the brunt and had less of a field of vision, and had taken no less than ten hits.

Not significant numbers for an army, but devastating ones for this little group.

The more men fell, the more it hit home that any one of them could become just another number in a matter of time.

It was that night, when Timo was trying very hard to drink himself into a stupor, that the conversation finally took place. They must have been thinking it for a while, but had never brought it up before, because, hell, who would ever _want_ to? Who wanted to say such things?

"We should talk about it," Lukas said, out of nowhere, and everyone had turned to look at him, dreary and mellow.

"Talk about what?" Ludwig asked, although he probably shouldn't have.

It was usually Timo who was forced to explain things, but this time Timo just couldn't seem to find his voice.

Instead, Lukas finally leaned forward, and whispered, "What would you like us to do, Ludwig, if it happens?"

It took him a moment to figure it out, and he sat there, silently, trying to understand.

Lukas made it easier by adding, "Almost everyone wants to be cremated these days. A lot easier, in a way, and then we can just take you off wherever you want."

"Oh."

_Oh_...

How strange, and perhaps a bit cruel, that such a proposition was completely normal. He had tried not to think about it much.

Hurt.

He wanted to go home. Always had. He and Gilbert had always promised that they'd do everything together, including finding themselves side by side in a cemetery.

That wasn't possible anymore.

His gravestone would be defaced if Gilbert survived the war and ever found out.

Instead of answering outright, he turned to Magnus, so quiet all day, and asked, "What do you want?"

Magnus, who avoided thinking about these things, too.

Barely having the strength to look up, Magnus gave a weak snort, and grumbled, "Dunno. Never thought about it. I guess, I mean, it's easier to cart around a buncha ashes, to take ya wherever... I always liked the ocean."

"Me too," Lukas added, easily.

Like it was nothing.

Timo was still.

Ludwig turned his eyes briefly to Berwald, who had suddenly found his shoes extremely interesting. He didn't have the heart to ask him; for his own sake, rather than Berwald's.

"Well?" Lukas prodded, after he had been silent for a time.

What could he say?

"It doesn't matter. You couldn't get me there, anyway."

Berwald glanced up, then, and opened his mouth. Ludwig was rather surprised at the tone of his voice when he said, sternly, "Just say it. We'll make it happen."

That place.

Tall trees. Shadows. Strange scents and stranger sounds, invisible currents of cool air, a blanket of leaves and earth.

Dusty light streaming in through breaks in the foliage.

The most beautiful place he had ever seen.

Turning his eyes to the window, he finally said, quietly, "The black forest."

They wouldn't ever be able to get him there, at least not until the war ended, and maybe even not afterwards, depending on how it all turned out. Hell, maybe none of them would even be around to do it by the time it all came to halt. Maybe they'd all be gone.

Sad.

They fell silent, as the urge to talk diminished, and Ludwig regretted that he hadn't made more use of the time he had had with Gilbert.

Heavy air.

"Well," Timo finally said, laughing a bit dryly, "Hell, who wants to get old, anyway, right?"

A short silence, and then Magnus took up the bottle again.

"I'll drink to that."

Ludwig stared ahead at the wall, and wished, more than anything, that he had kissed Gilbert back, that day. That he had been able to say those three simple words, just once.

'I love you.'

Had Gilbert already taken his military leave, to mourn his little brother, dead on the train? Proud Gilbert, standing over an empty grave, slouched and bleary-eyed, wondering why their luck had run out...

Why them.

He should have told Gilbert that he loved him, no matter what, however many mistakes he had made. He would _always_ love Gilbert.

Too late.

Berwald's eyes seemed to stay put on him for the rest of the night, but he didn't have the will to even look over.

After a while, Berwald trudged away, and Ludwig wasn't really sure why he was so agitated.

Everyone died. Sooner or later.

He took the couch that night.

Rather be alone.

* * *

><p>The forests out here were enormous.<p>

The shortest routes through it were still no less than a grueling fifteen hours.

Most of the time, it seemed, Ludwig used his scope to make sure that he could still see Lukas ahead of him, to make sure that he hadn't gotten himself lost.

Getting lost out here might not have been a death sentence on its own, not if you could hold out a few days to reach the other side, but running into a Red might be, especially in a panic.

Alone.

The day had started like any other.

The forest was white again. Had been for a week now. Weather in the spring months here was exceedingly unpredictable.

Everything else was normal.

Almost, anyway—Berwald had looked a little ill in the morning, and the odd flush of red on his cheeks had been visible before the white mask had been pulled over the bridge of his nose.

Feverish, perhaps.

They should have called the whole thing off for that day, and waited for Berwald to ward off the start of sickness. Dangerous, to go out with any sort of distractions, or if focus was an issue, but Berwald popped some aspirin, insisted he was alright, and they set out anyway.

Ludwig wished they hadn't.

Not if Berwald was at greater risk than usual.

New day, new trail. The most frightening thing about the forest, perhaps, was that every time into it was a completely new experience. New trees. New twisting paths. New obstacles.

Timo seemed to know these forests fairly well, although whether he had been in this exact one before was a subject up for debate. Maybe he had a good sense of direction.

Timo plotted out the routes with his friend, and Berwald used a compass and a little luck to follow them.

Everyone else just tagged along for the ride.

They rested, every so often, when the wooden crates were too heavy to carry any longer, and in those moments, they huddled down in the snow, and Lukas and Ludwig had a moment to collaborate as they kept watch.

Still couldn't see Timo or Magnus, so far ahead.

Berwald was far out of sight. Was he feeling alright?

Ludwig worried.

White blurs on the horizon.

A half hour of tentative rest, the men picked up their things, and they carried on.

Birds fluttered above head.

Ten hours.

Lukas jumped across a sloshing creek ahead, right behind the last of the trailing men, and Ludwig checked every inch of the bank before he followed.

So far, so good. No excitement today.

The same routine; walk a half mile, stop, turn around, make sure no one was behind. Another half mile, stop, turn around, double check.

Ahead, Lukas used his ears more than his eyes, having a much shorter sight, and he tilted his head towards every shuffle or shift in the trees.

Ludwig didn't bother; he wasn't skilled in that area like Lukas was, and whenever he heard a rustle, he wound up twisting around in a rush of adrenaline only to find a hapless deer in the crosshairs.

Lukas seemed to be able to tell the difference between fauna and soldiers, just by the sound. Whatever worked for him.

Long as he didn't pull out any of those damn grenades.

Eleven hours.

A twist in the path. Winding, evasive routes. Often, they came across long trails of footsteps, and it was a mystery as to whether it was their own, from days past, or Soviet soldiers trailing after them.

Who could say.

Each route seemed to overlap an older one at some point.

Timo's friend was clever, certainly, and Timo's fearlessness no doubt made them all the bolder. Their luck would run out one day, when the Soviets finally grew tired of these little games and decided just to raze the whole damn forest.

How many more times would they pull this off without being ambushed?

Twelve hours.

An explosion ahead rocked the stillness of the forest.

Gunshot. One slow, powerful blast.

Sniper rifle.

Lukas fell still and crouched, just in case, and Ludwig raised the scope to his eye, even as his heart started hammering.

That had been Berwald, certainly.

How bad was it ahead?

Berwald was sick. What if he had missed? What if he failed to see something because his head hurt and his vision was blurry?

The thought of Berwald getting _killed_—

"See anything?"

Lukas' soft voice cut over the drifting snow, and Ludwig, after a full circle around them, took a step forward. Lukas took it as an all-clear, and crept onward.

They didn't stop, no matter how many people were shooting around them. Ahead, the men just kept on walking, and so did Lukas.

Stopping could be as dangerous as walking.

Ludwig tried to keep focused.

Soldiers were always lurking in here, it seemed.

What if one of them had seen Berwald before Berwald had seen him? Hardly a fathomable thought, as much as Gilbert getting hurt had been.

Naïve, to think that they would never come to harm.

Lukas was close ahead, all of a sudden, and it didn't take Ludwig long to realize why he had fallen to stop when he suddenly dropped back down onto his knee.

A jerk of a hand towards their left.

Ludwig swung the rifle around, and could see the shifting and rustling of a Red, barely visible behind the brush on the hill. A shadow, white against white, and the vague outline of a coat.

A glint of light reflecting off of a gun. Lukas had spotted the flash of it.

He readied his finger.

The soldier was in his sights.

More gunshots from ahead; Magnus' fast gun, going off suddenly.

Berwald being sick, _that _conversation, thinking about those things, that image of them creeping into the black forest and tossin' around a bunch of ashes, the chest-clenching notion of ever having to scatter Berwald's ashes somewhere just because of one little mistake, sitting together and drinking one night and there being an empty seat...

He fired.

A shift of snow.

And he missed.

"_Shit_!"

He missed. He had fuckin' missed.

Keepin' his mind too much on whether or not Berwald was alright—

Lukas reached out, gripped his sleeve, and hissed, "Forget it! Leave him! Look, look, they're runnin'—we gotta go."

Ludwig shook him off, and, after a split-second of irritable glaring, he pulled the scope back up and aimed again.

Let the men run.

His job was the flank.

He was so intent on getting his target that he didn't even hear Lukas' soft footsteps retreating into the snow, didn't even stop to think that maybe Lukas had assumed that Ludwig was following him.

The scampering Soviet below had tried to take cover behind the ingrown brush beneath a tree, but Ludwig had spotted him shifting around.

He didn't miss.

He didn't.

Berwald expected perfection.

A missed soldier was a dead brother.

He fired again.

A second of stillness, a glimpse of red against the snow, and the soldier moved no more.

A movement from the other side. Another soldier, lying in wait.

He set the sights, focused his attention, waited for the moment, and gunned the second one down faster than he had the first.

A long sweep around.

No more shadows. Clear.

Satisfied, and feeling a little _vindicated_, he lowered the rifle, hair bristling, and turned back around, whispering eagerly, "Got 'em, let's get the hell—"

He stopped short, and his heart lurched hard enough to make him sick.

Snow. Trees.

Stillness.

Lukas was gone.

His rifle flew back up again, scope positioned, but this time he used it to scan the trees for friends rather than enemies, and Christ, it was a terrible feeling that crawled into his stomach as he looked this way and that, trying to see movement from any side.

Couldn't see anything.

Panic.

No matter how many times he swung the scope back and forth, there was nothing discernable, no sign of Lukas, no movement aside from the branches in the wind, no life at all.

Nothing.

The white attire that kept him hidden was doing the same for Lukas.

He looked down.

Footsteps.

The snow still held the footsteps, but _everyone's _fuckin' footsteps, Soviet ones too, and everywhere he looked around there were footsteps. So many men, so many soldiers, wandering though at different times. No way to tell them apart. All looked the same.

No help there.

Where was he? He'd gotten mixed up when the gunfire had started.

East—the soldiers had been coming from the east. Or had that been south?

The route they had taken twisted so often that there was no telling what direction they had been going, and whether or not they had intended to keep going that way. Unlikely, as often as they turned.

If he couldn't follow them, better to go straight, and head for the edge of the forest. Find them there. Get back to the town.

No sense in trying to follow a trail of footsteps that might take him into enemy territory. They had run for a reason, and he didn't want to run _into_ it.

For a moment, he just stood there, rifle low in his hands, and he felt helpless.

Stupid.

...oh, he should have obeyed Lukas' call for retreat. He shouldn't have let his damn pride override his logic.

Pride.

He had chided Gilbert for so many years for being so goddamn proud, but he was hardly any better. Trying to impress others and himself was going to get him killed one day, he had said to Gilbert. Those words were painfully true, now, and directed at Ludwig himself.

Finally, he lifted his foot and started moving.

He wandered silently through the white forests, keeping himself low and slow for fear of being seen by unfriendly eyes, and it did cross his mind that his stealth would be detrimental for the others should they have come back looking for him.

Not much of a choice there. He was on his own now, and he'd have to find his own damn way out of these vast woods. He couldn't risk exposure, not for anyone.

He kept the scope of the rifle out of the white sun as he walked, to be certain it wouldn't reflect any light.

Hours.

No doubt the others had cleared the forest by now. Out in the air.

He was stuck.

Every sound, every twitch, had him running for cover and pulling the rifle out from under his coat. In the end, he found nothing, and had to gather his nerve and start walking again.

The others.

Were they looking for him now?

He had meant it, when he had told Berwald that he would have looked for _him_.

_ Oh_, he hoped they were looking for him, and at the same time he hoped they _weren't_.

He was already walking his path, and he'd find the way out eventually. The thought of them putting themselves in needless danger was more horrifying than being lost.

If he stayed calm and focused, he would make it out of here.

As long as he didn't cross paths with another sniper.

He would have looked for Berwald, even knowing that Berwald would do exactly as he was doing now, knowing that with a clear head Berwald would make it out alright by himself. He still would have looked, because knowing that Berwald was on his own would have driven him crazy if he hadn't.

All the same, he hoped Berwald was sitting in the house, and being patient. He'd rather the poor ol' guy just sat and stared out the window, instead of putting himself in the line of fire by trying to track down a lost friend.

Berwald needed to wait. Magnus and Lukas needed to be patient. Timo needed to keep his restless feet still.

He'd find his way out.

The sun lowered, steadily, and a cloudy day became a clear, freezing night. He huddled under thick underbrush, knees to his chest, and was grateful for the white coat.

Hours of uneasy sleep, as every shift of branches and snow jolted him awake in panic, and he was glad when the dawn broke and light shed back in through the trees.

Ignoring a pang of hunger, he pulled himself up and carried on.

His mind wandered as much as his feet.

Had the others made it out alright yesterday? Was Berwald really back in the house, or was he lying in this forest somewhere, too?

Magnus' gun going off like crazy. Had his bad aim cost him?

Had Lukas caught up to the others, or had his light feet caught the attention of a soldier that Ludwig had not been around to take out?

Timo hated the Reds so much that he acted recklessly. Had he gone after one and been blindsided by another?

His head hurt.

Walking, walking, walking.

No matter how many hours he crept along, the end didn't seem to be in sight.

He had gotten himself mixed up, no doubt, and was walking horizontally within the forest rather than vertically. An extended journey, but it was too late now to change direction.

Eventually, the forest would end. No woods on earth just went on forever.

...sure as hell felt like this one did, though.

Alone and in a precarious situation, every minute seemed like an eternity.

The second day was well on when he came across the first unwelcome sight.

The smell of it hit him long before the sight did.

A foul odor wafting in from afar, even with the mask over his nose, and somehow he knew right off what it was. All the same, he sought it out, because there might have been something worthwhile there.

His bullet supply was fairly low.

The odor grew ever stronger as he wound in and out between the trees, and it didn't take too long to find it.

Half-buried with snow, mottled and grey and bloated, lied a Soviet soldier. The uniform, what was left of it, was clearly recognizable. White bone poked out here and there, gleaming in the pale sunlight. Wildlife had picked off quite a bit. Who knew how long it—had been a _he_, once—had been out here.

For a moment, struck in place by the stench and by the _idea_, Ludwig faltered.

Dead bodies in the forest.

Had any of his brothers joined them yesterday?

Couldn't think about. Couldn't stand to.

Not Berwald.

Lifting his foot, he started moving.

Oh, fuckin Christ, that _smell_—

He crept forward, keeping his hand over his mouth and nose and his eyes well alert, and when he was close enough, he crouched and patted the corpse down.

Nothing very useful. Whoever had killed him had already stripped him clean. All he got was a busted compass and a few coins.

He didn't waste a second in bounding away the moment he was upright again, as his eyes started watering from the rancid scent.

Walking again.

The scent faded away the farther he got.

A few hours later, as the afternoon dragged into evening, it started snowing again.

He probably could have gotten out by now, if he could walk normally. Speed-walking, jogging, running, anything that was not a creep, would have gotten him killed.

He would take his time, and get out alive.

Sure did miss Berwald, though. Seeing him again would be welcome. He was gonna sit there on the couch and stare at him all fuckin' night, that was for sure.

Blue light, as the white sky became grey with the first stir of dusk.

Visibility reduced.

The snow glowed in the remaining daylight, the flakes shimmering as they floated down.

Glittering on the ground.

The forest turned into a sapphire prism.

Flecks of colored light, as icicles and snow changed the woods into a kaleidoscope of ultramarine.

Lethargy.

Pretty place. Shame he couldn't have walked here under different circumstances.

Dead bodies were hidden under these drifts of beauty.

Gettin' sleepy.

His already slow pace slowed all the more, as exhaustion weighed him down, and he was almost ready to settle down for another night when a twig behind him snapped.

A footstep from behind.

The sound of heavy breathing.

His wandering mind lit up.

He whirled around, the survival instinct kicking in like a motor, and he flung his rifle up into the air, finger flying to the trigger and already taking aim even though he didn't know what he was shooting at.

His finger contracted.

A flash of white.

A hand reached out like lightning, grabbed the barrel of the rifle, and shoved it firmly aside, thwarting his effort at self-defense. He was probably good as dead now—

Thunder.

The bullet went off into the trees, and oh, _God_, oh, was he so fuckin' _glad _for it, because when the panic faded and his eyes focused and his mind was able to comprehend, he could have either pitched a fit or burst into tears. Maybe both, come to think.

Not a Red.

Berwald.

Standing there in that huge white coat, pale hair covered in snow, cheeks red and lips chapped with cold, glasses moist with condensation, eyes wide and pupils dilated with was certainly everything from fear to relief, his own rifle gripped firmly in one hand and boots splayed in the snow for balance. His other hand clenched the barrel of Ludwig's rifle.

The most beautiful fuckin' sight Ludwig had ever laid eyes upon.

Hadn't thought it was even possible for Berwald to become more beautiful, and yet here he was, bathed in blue, hair glinting with shades of cobalt in the light.

Berwald.

His hood was pushed back, and his mask was down around his neck. Why? What the hell had been going through the big idiot's mind, exposing himself like that? Letting color show through, when there should be none. What had he been thinking?

Why hadn't he _waited_?

He should have waited.

Stupid.

The urge to reach out and slap Berwald across the face and then yank that mask back up where it should be was suddenly overridden with something a thousand times more powerful.

Horror.

The gun fell in a second, and so did his heart, as he realized how _close _he had been to making a godawful mistake. He'd spent so much time worrying about Berwald getting gunned down and he'd nearly been the one to finally do it—

He felt himself sliding down the bark of the tree behind him, rifle falling lax in between his legs as the adrenaline faded into a dull ache.

Too close. Too close.

He'd almost shot someone he hadn't wanted to.

Again.

Too close.

Berwald seemed as taken aback as he did, and just stood there, looking down at him and breathing through his mouth in a fright.

They stared at each other.

So many things he wanted to say, seeing Berwald there.

So many words.

So many sentiments.

In the end, when he opened his mouth, all that came out was a weak, "You shouldn't have come back."

Why had he said that? That hadn't been what he had wanted to say. It was true, yeah, but he had meant to say something else.

A firm hand gripped his upper arm, and yanked him to his feet.

Their eyes met, as Berwald had to give him a good shake to wake him up enough to stand on his own, and he could see the way Berwald's mouth had fallen open as if to speak.

No voice.

It was their curse, he supposed, to never be able to say exactly what they wanted to.

The flush of fever was still evident in Berwald's face; Ludwig liked to think that it was the fever that had convinced him taking off that damn mask was a good idea, because otherwise the recklessness was incomprehensible.

So had been sneaking up behind him like that.

It had to have been the fever that had clouded Berwald's judgment.

Or maybe...

Berwald's wide eyes looked so helpless suddenly, and he finally managed to breathe, lowly, "I had to. I had to. You said you'd'a looked for me. I had to."

That was different.

Dumb.

Coulda gotten himself killed in here, wandering around like this with that hood hanging back, and Ludwig would've come out from the forest only to realize Berwald had not.

He woulda died.

When his feet were steady and the lurching adrenaline released its grip, Ludwig reached up, grabbed Berwald's hood, and pulled it up. Berwald just stood there, and didn't even protest when he forced the mask back up to where it rightfully belonged.

Ludwig caught his gaze, and shook his head.

"What were you thinking?"

Berwald seemed stuck. Strange, as if it had been him, somehow, that had been lost.

His answer was low and clumsy. "So you'd see me, if you were lookin'."

So stupid.

Someone else could have seen him first.

Berwald's hand still had a vice-grip upon his upper arm, and it became clear a few minutes later that he had absolutely no intention of letting go. Ludwig had no choice but to let Berwald drag him along as he would.

Night fell.

The snow stopped.

A few hours, at the most, and then the trees thinned.

He'd been closer than he had thought.

Dumb Berwald had only needed to wait until the morning, and he would have been home-free. Just a few more hours.

Berwald's hands were shaking.

Stepping out of the forest, Berwald safely at his side, was one of the best moments of his life.

Not the best, maybe; perhaps the most relieving.

The house couldn't come soon enough.

The clouds parted in the sky. Stars above.

As soon as he knew he was safe, Ludwig's mind shut down in exhaustion, and he remembered Berwald stripping the white gear off and dragging him into a car. The second he sat down, he was out like a light, and didn't wake until Berwald was yanking him out.

The sight of that shitty little house was as good as finding heaven.

Berwald was so frantic to get back in that he practically kicked down the door, and whoever had been driving the car brought in the guns and coats.

Warm air. Warmer voices.

He woke up, jostled from lethargy by the sound of Magnus' loud voice.

"Fuckin' son of a bitch, _there_ he is!"

A hand falling heavily on his shoulder, so hard that he thought for a minute there that Magnus had gone and dislocated it all over again, and it was such a relief to be back.

To see these men safe.

To see Magnus standing there, unharmed and looking so happy for once. To see Timo, face falling loose as tension fled, clearly in one piece.

Lukas wasn't there.

Ludwig looked around, and Magnus just smiled, wearily.

"He's on his way back. He was lookin' for ya, too."

Why couldn't they have just waited?

Before he could ask, they had pushed him down onto the couch, and Timo shoved a glass of vodka into his hands.

He didn't waste a second in putting it back.

That had been enough stress for the rest of the year.

Time to calm down, now.

Everyone was alright, himself included.

Still, he caught Timo's gaze, and said, sternly, "You should have made them wait. I was almost out. I coulda got out alone."

Timo just smiled, a bit shakily, and responded, "I tried. That's what I said, too. I told 'em you weren't gonna just be sittin' there in the same spot waiting, but, hey. You know how stubborn they are. They do what they want."

Ludwig shook his head, and Timo tried to lighten the mood by adding, slyly, "Anyway, it's for the best, because Berwald would have knocked us all out if we had tried to drag him back home. He barged right back into the forest after we cleared out and realized somebody was missin'."

A twinge of warmth in his chest, and somehow a sense of exasperation.

Berwald had wandered in those forests as long as _he_ had, as exposed as he had made himself, and sick, no less.

Why? The leader wasn't supposed to be impulsive.

He looked over, but Berwald didn't even seem to hear them anymore.

He just stared at Ludwig.

An hour or two later, around midnight, Lukas came slinking in the door, and he made a beeline for Ludwig the second their eyes met.

Hell, Lukas, for a moment there, showed a moment of actual emotion, and the arm that he slung around Ludwig's shoulders was unusually tight.

A whisper in his ear.

"I'm sorry. I shoulda looked back."

Not Lukas' fault.

His own, for being proud and stubborn.

Small talk, as the minutes ticked by.

They kept shoving glass after glass into his hands, and it hit him hard after his two day fast. Already tipsy, and yet still the more he drank, the more he thought about it, the more he was certain that he was not the one who needed the alcohol.

He wasn't the one in shock.

He was already gettin' over it, now that he was sitting here.

Looking over, a bit blearily, he could see Berwald, and knew that they should have been shoving the vodka down his throat instead.

Berwald's shot nerves were quite visible, in his clenched jaw, in his bloodshot eyes, in the way he gripped his hands together in his lap, in the way he was so pale he had nearly gone yellow, in the way his shoulders shook with every breath he drew, and he just stared at Ludwig the whole time, as a child might have stared at a pet that he had found again after assuming it lost and gone forever.

That was the first time he had ever seen Berwald look so _sick_.

The others didn't even seem to notice, or if they did, then they didn't seem to care.

The dawn drew closer.

Finally, after everyone else had retreated for a few hours of rest, Berwald spoke up.

A long, hard look, but when Berwald opened his mouth, he didn't scold him, didn't berate him, and he didn't make him feel childish.

He didn't say, 'You made a mistake.' He didn't say, 'You put us all in danger.' He didn't say, 'You don't belong here.'

Just one simple phrase.

A strange tone of voice.

"I—I'm happy that you're okay."

Just like that, Berwald's stern face fell, and he turned away, running a hand through his hair as if suddenly nervous. Ludwig, inert on the couch and feeling a little out of it for the alcohol, could only stare up at him, and wonder if that was what Berwald had really wanted to say.

He himself hadn't even said what he had wanted to, had he?

When Berwald had hauled him to his feet in that white forest, he had said, 'You shouldn't have come back.' That hadn't been what was supposed to come out.

So, he called to Berwald, as he turned around, "I'm happy that you wanted to look for me."

Even if he didn't condone it, he wouldn't deny that the thought had made him _happy_.

Berwald turned back, and there were no words in Ludwig's repertoire that could have described that look upon his face, as he said, fervently, "I woulda never left ya there. Never."

The crackling fire was not enough to drown out what Berwald muttered then, even though his voice threatened to give out on him.

"I couldn't'a. Not _you_. You... If I hadn't found you...I woulda gone crazy. You're the only one that even looks at me."

Ludwig was glad.

Because he had meant to say, 'I was afraid I wouldn't ever see you again.'

Berwald crept back, and disappeared into the kitchen, no doubt to fall asleep at the table.

Ludwig watched him go, and, just like that, it was like someone had set a fire underneath him.

He'd gotten the scare of his life, that was for sure. From now on, it would be a damn good idea to act on his thoughts, instead of fretting about them.

Life was too uncertain out here.

Time to be more like Gilbert, and live in the moment.

Berwald had tracked him down. That must have meant something.

It _couldn_'t have been all in his head.

Time to find out.

So that he wouldn't regret, later on, that he hadn't said all he had wanted to.

Magnus and Timo waltzed around each other quite gracefully, and it was obvious as to _why _by now, even to him, and if _they _weren't waiting until the war ended, why should he? He was no dancer, had never even lifted up his foot to try, but suddenly the notion had gone far beyond tempting.

If Berwald didn't want to lead, that was fine. He'd take the reigns.

Music was already starting.

He wouldn't cry about anything later, if he could at least say he had tried. If it didn't work out how he wanted it to, he wouldn't _regret_.

The time for carefulness and subtlety had passed.

Berwald would be wise to watch his back.

Staring had gotten old.


	12. The One On the Right Is On the Left

**Chapter 12 **

**The One On the Right Is On the Left**

Things had shifted.

Roles reversed.

It was natural, perhaps, that a soldier as young as Ludwig was perfectly capable of bouncing back after a life-threatening situation, as much as a cat could always land on its feet, but maybe it wasn't so natural that Berwald still found himself the one that was hampered by it.

Couldn't shake it.

Ludwig, lost out in the trees.

The horrendous, helpless feeling of wandering through the forest, looking this way and that and hoping that he would see a flash of something familiar. Lying down in the snow and trying to sleep, only to be kept awake by fear and guilt and anxiety. Glimpsing movement and lifting his rifle in excitement only to see a rabbit bounding through the snow. Feeling _dizzy _when he came across a motionless figure, having to creep up to it and grip the mask in his hand, taking deep breaths and gathering the courage to finally pull it down.

The surge of relief, when it was never anyone he knew.

Not even caring that someone might have been stalking him, as he popped onto his toes and gazed out into the trees, searching for something that just wouldn't seem to come.

The worst feeling.

He couldn't ever remember feeling so helpless. Not since he had been a child.

If it had been any of the others that had gotten lost, he would have looked for them, too, and he would have felt terrible, for sure, but not like _that_.

Not so guilty.

The others had come because they had wanted to. They had volunteered themselves for this sort of thing.

But not Ludwig. Ludwig had come along because Berwald had forced his hand.

Nothing had ever felt so terrible, thinking that he had brought a kid out here in the middle of nowhere against his will and had gotten him killed for it.

Not anything.

The thought of walking into a room and never again having Ludwig look up at him and send him a smile. Of sitting at the table and glancing up only to realize that Ludwig wasn't there anymore.

He couldn't have lived the rest of his life with that hanging over his head, he couldn't have.

Oh, God, _finding _him, actually finding him there, wandering around in the snow, was nothing that Berwald could ever have explained.

The pang of his heart suddenly lurching in his chest, the way he had felt himself drawing in a breath so sharp it had hurt his lungs, the way his feet had moved suddenly on their own accord, dragging him over to Ludwig without even stopping to think that maybe he should have said something first, just seeing him...

Exhilaration, and somehow horror.

Nearly getting shot hadn't been part of the plan, but it hadn't been a factor in his jittery mood.

That hadn't been the reason he had felt ill the rest of the night.

Somehow, it was hard to be excited.

He couldn't explain why he felt sicker after finding Ludwig than he had when he had been looking for him. Maybe everything he had been trying to keep stifled had finally been given the chance to come out, once Ludwig was safe, or maybe it had just been the way Ludwig had looked at him.

The way Ludwig had still been able to have a care for him and pull that mask back up, even though Berwald had put him into a situation that had nearly meant the end of him. The way that Ludwig still looked at him and still trusted him and for some unholy reason still _followed _him, knowing that he didn't do most things right or competently, knowing that Berwald had not shown much worth as a leader.

Ludwig still followed him.

He had never felt so awful.

When he lied there at the table and tried to sleep even through the shock, he had quickly realized that putting this behind him was going to be a long time coming.

He couldn't seem to stop thinking about it.

Days passed, and still, Berwald found himself sitting there, and feeling nauseous all of a sudden.

He should have been able to get over it. Ludwig wasn't lying there, half-covered in some gnarly undergrowth in the middle of a nameless forest in Estonia. Ludwig wasn't in a little flask, tucked safely in his back pocket.

Ludwig was here, alive and well and obviously bearing no scars from his brush with danger. Healthy and vibrant, as he should be. His hair and eyes were still bright, face still flushed with youthful vigor, and his teeth still gleamed as white as they always had on the occasion he actually chose to show them.

Actin' kinda different now, maybe. No one else seemed to notice that, though. Maybe he was just seeing things.

More than likely.

In the end, Berwald was the one hung up, and he felt bad about that, too.

He should have been the one to stand up strong and say, 'Get over it.'

Instead, Ludwig just flitted around like a bird, active as always, and didn't even seem to remember being lost. It was Ludwig who looked at Berwald, shoulders firm, and asked, 'You alright?'

That wasn't right.

Upside-down.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it, and, eventually, the guilt would go away, and so would the fear.

Losing any of them had been one of his greatest fears (hell, he'd _never _admit it, but he'd'a cried a little if Magnus were to fall one day), and yet the thought of losing Ludwig, who had by many circumstances been put under his care, was horrifying.

Ludwig, who trusted him more than the others did.

Ludwig, who had never once looked at him and told him that something he suggested was wrong.

Ludwig, who never questioned him.

Unfathomable.

So many things had run through his mind in those woods, but not all of them were within his grasp.

It might have been the fever that had been thinking some of those things for him.

Disjointed notions. Things he would say when he finally found Ludwig. The dismal, blurry image of himself falling onto his knees if he had found Ludwig halfway under the snow.

The way even _thinking _about it made him feel as if he had lost something irreplaceable.

If he had come across a motionless Ludwig, he could not have said with any certainty what he would have done.

Maybe he had pulled down that hood and mask because some part of him had already assumed Ludwig was dead, and the recklessness had been meant to invite unfriendly eyes upon him.

If Ludwig were gone...

Darkness.

Ludwig, whatever had been going through _his _mind during that time, didn't seem to hold any ill feelings towards him and his lack of leadership. If anything, actually, Ludwig's actions towards him had become considerably gentler, if that was an appropriate word.

He noticed it a few days later.

The first move had been simple; he had come into the kitchen, finding himself alone with Ludwig, and when they had locked eyes, Ludwig had reached up to place a palm upon his forehead.

Maybe he had still looked sick.

The fever was gone, though, and it wasn't illness that was making him pale.

Fuckin' nightmares.

Ludwig had smiled all the same, his hand lingering for a while, and Berwald had made no move to brush it off.

Ludwig was alive. The hand was still warm.

So, he just stood there, complacent and weary, and Ludwig had finally removed his hand, pushed Berwald carefully into a chair, and made sure he didn't lift a finger for anything the entire day.

Weird.

After that day, everything Ludwig did seemed different.

Even when it came to waking him up.

Now that there was no door to bang upon, instead, at the first light of dawn, Ludwig would put a hand on the top of his head, and leave it there until Berwald came to.

The first time had been a little odd, a little surreal, but not the worst feeling in the world, that was for sure.

It only took two days of _that _for him to start looking forward to it, and he realized that he didn't mind waking up early anymore, because it meant having something comforting ahead of him, and sitting there alone at the kitchen table over coffee with Ludwig was pretty goddamn pleasant.

He felt at ease, for the first time in so long.

Being around someone who seemed to enjoy his company rather than suffer it. Someone who didn't fidget under his gaze like Timo did. Someone who didn't challenge him belligerently every step of the way like Magnus did. Someone who didn't unnerve him like Lukas did.

Just someone who could sit with him and talk to him and actually smile at him.

Like he was perfectly normal. He'd spent most of his life thinking the opposite.

The way Ludwig was acting now was pleasant, yes, but it was also more than a little peculiar. Sometimes, it felt like Ludwig was testing him, although he couldn't say why, or whether or not he was passing whatever invisible trials Ludwig seemed to be setting before him.

Ludwig's actions confused him, certainly, but that didn't mean he was going to complain about them.

And, well...

Teenagers were supposed to be like this, weren't they? Always up to something, always bored, always used to getting their way. Always messing with others for fun. Petulant and disobedient and bold. Ludwig hadn't ever been like that before, at least not while they had known him, but...

Maybe he had just been jolted by the mishap, and was trying to enjoy life a little.

Or something like that.

He couldn't figure out some things Ludwig did, nor grasp the reasons for them.

Most of them, actually.

He couldn't figure out why Ludwig suddenly reached out in the mornings and smoothed down hair that was sticking upright. He couldn't figure out why Ludwig had started teasing him by suddenly coming up to him when he was doing something and plucking his glasses right off his nose. He couldn't figure out that damn smile, when Ludwig tucked the spectacles behind his back and studied him with a tilted head. He couldn't figure out why Ludwig forced him to actually come over if he wanted them back, and he couldn't figure out why Ludwig insisted on putting them back on himself. He couldn't figure out why, when he squinted his eyes shut defensively, Ludwig just said, in a voice that was more of a croon, 'What's the matter? I'm not gonna poke your eyes out!'

He couldn't figure out why he felt so fidgety afterward.

All the same, whatever it was that Ludwig was up to, he couldn't deny that it was steadily lifting his mood.

Come to think, that might have been what Ludwig had intended all along, seeing that he had been struggling with the mishap. That thought was somehow endearing. That somebody cared enough about him not to let him sit around and mope all day.

Even at the worst times, Ludwig still managed to take off the edge.

And some days, God knew, he _needed _that.

A particularly rough day in the forest had put him in a foul mood.

He'd scampered through the brush for cover at the sight of a Red, and had gotten himself twisted up in a patch of hidden barbed wire. Ripped his arm to hell trying to get free, and everything had gone downhill from there.

Afterwards, even after getting back on track, he could already feel the irritation mounting.

His moods were fickle out here, to say the least.

Reaching the house again hadn't really helped matters much, and he just sat there, chin in his palm and staring off into space as he brooded.

Timo and Magnus avoided him like the plague all night, sensing the storm hanging over his head. Lukas, not alarmed but on the other hand not wanting to be struck by lightning, stayed in his bedroom.

Sometimes, they were scared of him.

The cushion next to him sinking down made him look over, and he quickly found himself nose to nose with a disheveled Ludwig. Quite literally. The tips of their noses brushed. It was only his fingers, caught over his mouth as he had turned his head, that kept their lips from bumping together.

Alright, not _all_ of them were scared of him.

Had Ludwig meant to get that close?

Ah, hell—he was too damn tired to even pull back, and just sat there, staring at Ludwig wearily and wanting to go to sleep.

Let him do whatever he wanted.

From Ludwig's ruffled appearance, he was just as tired, and just as ready to go to sleep. Nonetheless, Ludwig sat there for a while, seemingly content with that closeness, and finally, he lowered his eyes, and pulled back.

"You're bleeding," Ludwig suddenly threw out, and when Berwald looked down at his arm, he could see the blood seeping through the sleeve of his shirt.

"It's nothin'."

Whether it was nothing or not hardly seemed important to Ludwig; he had already reached down, yanking the sleeve up Berwald's arm to get a good look at the wound.

Ludwig's warm fingers prodding his arm was a very unusual sensation. Physical contact with other human beings was a rather foreign concept.

But hardly unpleasant.

He sat there, quietly, and let Ludwig do as he would, because it was kind of nice to have someone fussing over him for once.

Quickly, Ludwig had become less interested in his fresh wound and more interested in old ones, and he took Berwald's hand up into his own, eyes tracing every old scar he found upon them.

Ludwig's hands were smooth. Unblemished.

There was more than a little distance between their backgrounds.

More like an ocean.

He tugged his hand back in a moment of self-consciousness, and Ludwig looked up at him, asking, without missing a beat, "Tough work?"

Work? No.

Instead, he muttered, lowly, "When I was your age, I got into fights a lot."

Nobody had ever asked him.

If Ludwig was surprised at the explanation, he didn't show it.

He had mellowed down the older he had gotten, but at Ludwig's age he had been little more than a hyper-aggressive Magnus. Without the charm and wit. Not a pretty combination.

Glad those days were over.

Had he still been the same gruff, brash youth, he and Ludwig would have butted heads and probably tried to beat the hell out of each other every day, and Magnus woulda been dead by now.

Now, calm(er) and mature, he appreciated Ludwig's presence.

Ludwig just lifted his eyes back up, and said, "Well, better put some alcohol on it. Don't wanna get tetanus or anything out here, do ya?"

He had to grit his teeth and clamp his jaw to keep from wincing when Ludwig acted upon his statement and doused his wound with alcohol. Nobody here was a medic, not by any means, but they knew how to bandage up a wound, at least a little.

Ludwig gave him a clap on the shoulder when he was done, and said, "I'll take the couch. Get some rest."

Afterwards, even though he still felt like shit and his arm hurt, he lied in bed with a snoring Lukas, and realized that his mood was a bit better.

He was becoming dependent upon Ludwig's ability to ease his nerves.

Like a drug.

Being around Ludwig lately had become similar to several shots of vodka.

* * *

><p>Days passed.<p>

Ludwig got bolder with each and every one of them.

It was perfectly possible that he was going crazy, and yet it seemed like Ludwig was starting to mess with his mind a little bit.

A new experience, certainly.

When Ludwig woke him up one chilly morning, with that warm hand in his hair, Berwald had groped around on the floor only to realize that Ludwig (had to be Ludwig) had hidden his glasses.

He had spent more time than he would like to admit scrounging around for them, down on his knees and groping under every surface, bumping into end tables and feeling his way along the walls, and the whole while, Ludwig just followed him around, no doubt smiling, and waited for stubborn Berwald to ask for help.

When he finally turned around and heaved a sigh of defeat, asking, 'Can I have 'em now?' Ludwig just gave a short 'Hm!'

Then he said, in a prim, Lukas-inspired voice, 'I don't know what you mean.'

What, did Ludwig want him to beg or something? He didn't understand what the hell Ludwig wanted.

Later on, however, when Ludwig grabbed his arm and led him through the house, guiding him through daily rituals, it steadily dawned on him that Ludwig just wanted to see how he acted, how he looked, in a moment of vulnerability. To see what it would be like if Berwald ever had to rely on him for something.

Ludwig wanted to be in charge for a day, if only in a small manner.

...actually, it hadn't bothered him too much. Not being blind—he didn't like _that_. It just didn't bother him much to spend time with Ludwig. To hear Ludwig's voice in his ear.

Kind of relaxing, in a way, to let go of the wheel and let someone else steer.

No pressure.

He spent the great majority of the day like that, being led around by Ludwig like a little kid, until, finally, he turned to Ludwig, and conceded complete, friendly defeat.

Whatever Ludwig wanted, he'd do it. And surely Ludwig wanted something, because otherwise he couldn't think of a good reason for blinding him.

Ludwig had won this game.

'Alright. I give. Whaddya want?'

Ludwig just responded, 'Not a thing.'

The glasses were set upon his nose shortly afterward. His vision came back, colors bled into focus, a blurry Ludwig turned into a crystal-clear one, and it had actually been a little bit breathtaking, to see Ludwig's smile, to see the individual strands of his hair sweeping back, to see his eyes in sharp contrast after only being able to make out fuzzy shapes for hours on end.

Kind of like walking outside on a cloudy night and having the moon shine out through a break in the front.

Ludwig had just stared at him for minute, and then walked away.

And that had been that.

He never truly had figured _that _one out. Whatever Ludwig had been up to was beyond him.

One afternoon, hanging sheets and clothes out to dry, Ludwig suddenly looked over at him, flashed a beam, and said, 'You need to smile more, you know?'

He opened his mouth, and was quite ready to retort, 'You're one to talk!' but fell short.

Ludwig hadn't ever really smiled much; that was, at least, until very recently. Nowadays...seemed like Ludwig was smiling a _lot_, at least when he was around.

Kinda strange.

He just gave Ludwig a quick look, and said, noncommittally, 'Hm.'

A flash of movement.

A sudden scent of linen, as Ludwig took a sheet he was hanging and turned quickly around to toss it over Berwald's head.

Darkness.

He was taken completely off guard, that much was certain, because nothing about Ludwig had ever really seemed to be all that spontaneous, and yet still here he was, stuck under a cool bed sheet and struggling to surface above it as Ludwig ruffled his hair a bit roughly.

Something Lukas might have done to Ludwig.

...Lukas was a bad influence.

It wasn't really that hard to break free of Ludwig's playful grip (whether he really wanted to or not was hardly of concern), and when he pulled the sheet off of his head, hair sticking up to high heaven with static and glasses crooked, he realized that he had actually cracked a little bit of a smile.

A breathless, confused one, but a smile all the same.

Felt strange.

Not long after, Timo wandered outside, hands in his pockets, and looked at them curiously.

'What's all the ruckus?'

They must have looked a bit strange, Berwald suddenly disheveled and Ludwig gathering sheets from the ground, and Timo was no doubt wondering what the hell they were up to.

Ludwig, face so damn serious all of sudden, had turned around, brow high, and responded, 'What ruckus?'

Timo, looking as confused as Berwald felt, just lifted a shoulder, furrowed his brow, and gave a quick, 'Huh.'

With that, he turned around, walked back inside, and the second the door closed, Ludwig's face lit back up like daybreak, and he started laughing.

Berwald was pretty sure then that he had been drinking too much lately.

He was always so confused these days.

Often times, he found himself looking around helplessly, and he wanted to say to the others, 'Are you _seeing _this, or am I just goin' crazy?'

No one was ever around to ask.

Ludwig was clever enough to make sure they were alone whenever he threw out something odd. When the others were around, Ludwig was calm, cool, and completely normal.

Ludwig was playing a game, a different one every day, and Berwald seemed to be stuck in the middle, for whatever reason.

Couldn't complain much.

Being the center of somebody's attention was quite enthralling.

All the same, in an effort to confirm whether or not it was time for him to pack up his things and go off to the asylum, Berwald kept Lukas close to his side all day long soon after, so that when Ludwig did something strange, Berwald could grab Lukas' arm, twist him around and say, 'See that? Do you see that?'

And that whole damn day, Ludwig was quiet, straight-faced, and perfectly collected. Berwald stared at him the whole time, eyes narrowed and focused behind his glasses, waiting for any twitch or any glance, but Ludwig was _smarter_ than he was, apparently, because he got nothin'.

Not once, not a single time, had Ludwig sent him a great smile, or lifted his hand to conjure up anything bizarre.

Ludwig let Berwald get his own coffee. Ludwig didn't reach out to straighten his glasses or smooth his hair. Ludwig didn't crack a smile unless it was Lukas who prompted one. Ludwig's voice didn't change pitch once. And fuckin' Ludwig didn't even quirk a brow, not even when Berwald had started staring at him so intently that he could very likely have set Ludwig ablaze.

Nothing.

Berwald let Lukas go that night, feeling strangely disappointed, and the very _second _that Lukas had wandered out of the room, Ludwig's perfect posture slouched a bit, he placed his hands on the counter, lowered his chin, and started beaming.

Berwald was pretty certain, then :

He was fuckin' insane.

So he had just stared at Ludwig with a scrunched brow, shook his head, and when Ludwig started laughing, Berwald tossed himself down in a chair and thunked his head on the table.

Crazy, alright.

Well.

Being crazy didn't really feel all that bad. Ludwig's laugh was pretty easy on the ears.

If _this _was crazy...

Cuckoo.

* * *

><p>One day, when spring was getting much warmer and turning into summer, the morning started off on the wrong foot.<p>

He dreamt of Ludwig, lost in the woods, and by the time the dawn came, he was already in a bad mood.

Lack of sleep.

Ludwig's hand hadn't been upon his head at the rise of the sun.

The day was already going downhill.

When he finally got up and tromped around, his agitation intensified when he realized that Ludwig was gone, and so was Lukas. Berwald had barely been able to keep his coffee down as he had stood there on the steps outside, foot tapping away and arms crossed and scanning the street every few seconds.

Nausea.

Anger.

Where had they gone off to? The thought of Ludwig going anywhere with Lukas, of all people, was a rather frightening prospect. If Lukas had led him off on an impromptu mission, if Lukas had recruited Ludwig to carry around bundles of dynamite, right in the middle of this red snake pit. If Ludwig got _hurt_.

Lukas may have had infinite luck, but Ludwig did not. Lukas' wandering feet could very well have been the end of Ludwig's clumsy ones.

He felt sick the whole day, not quite comprehending why, until finally, when the afternoon sun was high, they came ambling back into sight.

They walked side by side, like old friends, and Berwald was so _angry _at Lukas all of a sudden that he hardly noticed the bags slung over their backs.

When they glimpsed him standing there on the creaking wooden steps, arms still crossed and lips pursed, they just raised up their brows and smiled at him, like they had never done anything wrong.

They had barely even come within ear shot when he snapped, "Where have ya been?"

They didn't even flinch.

At that tone of voice, Magnus and Timo probably would've ducked their heads down and started off in the opposite direction. But Lukas had never really bowed down to Berwald's anger, not ever, and Ludwig didn't even twitch or shift his gaze.

Had to be these two.

It was Lukas who answered him, saying, smoothly, "Just went out to procure some new things, is all. Ludwig and I like to stay prepared."

"And you're just carryin' it all back like that, huh? Not even tryin' to hide it?"

His irritable mood was obvious, but still they seemed so damn carefree.

They shared a look, and Lukas was quick to add, with a flip of his hair, "Sure! Why not? Who would ever suspect two handsome men like us?"

Their smiles were starting to grate him, and he shook his head, trying very much to look like a disappointed parent, which was actually pretty much exactly what he felt like.

Walkin' through the streets, bags full of bullets and guns and God only knew what else slung over their shoulders, not even trying to be stealthy.

He could understand Lukas being reckless. Lukas believed very much in hiding in plain sight, as it was, and surely he felt no harm would come to them as long as he carried all of his things in his lucky backpack.

One day, he was going to take that goddamn bag and burn it while Lukas was asleep.

See how fuckin' lucky he was then.

Ludwig, on the other hand, surprised him. A soldier should know better.

Lukas really _was _a bad influence.

Ludwig's smile was easy and calm, and when he caught Berwald's eye, he said, without a trace of guilt, "You shoulda come along. I got some pretty good stuff."

Ludwig was jerking him around—how had he ever been expected to come along, when they had snuck out intentionally?

All the same, when Ludwig walked up the steps and passed him, sending him an exceedingly long and pointed glance that very nearly made _him _flinch, Berwald tried to make his displeasure known, if only by glaring.

Well. Not really glaring. He didn't have quite the heart to glare at Ludwig or Lukas, not like he could Magnus, but he gave it a damn good effort.

Not good enough, apparently, for when Ludwig crossed the threshold into the house, Berwald could hear him starting to laugh.

Meh.

As soon as Ludwig was out of sight, Berwald reached out, grabbed Lukas' collar, and pulled him aside.

"What are you thinkin', huh?" were the first words that had come out of his mouth, and Lukas had just stared up at him, quite contentedly, glossy hair whipping in the wind, that leering smile never leaving his face.

Berwald couldn't exactly say why he was so annoyed with Lukas all of a sudden.

So reckless.

"If yer gonna go out and try an' get yourself killed, that's all well and good, but don't drag him into it. What're ya thinkin', huh? I told you before, not to go off without tellin' anybody! Didn't you learn your lesson last time? It's bad enough goin' off on your own, but why do ya want to put him in the middle of it? Leave him here next time or don't go out at all."

God almighty, that had been the most he had spoken in years, it seemed.

Lukas, far from subdued or shamed by his words, just lit up with a great smile, fawn eyelashes nearly hiding his indigo eyes as he crinkled them up to fit his leer. It had been a long time since he had seen Lukas grin like that, too.

Fuckin' Cheshire cat.

"_I _didn't take him _anywhere_," Lukas finally sniffed, quite primly. "Why, he woke _me _up and I just went along with him."

The hand in Lukas' collar lost its grip, and eventually fell.

Hadn't expected that.

Berwald knew he musta looked dumb, standing there with a crinkled brow and a crooked grimace, and Lukas just reached out, put a hand on his shoulder, and said, easily, "I think he's tryin' to impress you, since he got lost. You shoulda seen him out there, barterin' like a master."

Huh. Was that it? Was that why Ludwig had been acting so strange lately? Because he was trying to prove himself?

Something about that didn't quite sit well—didn't feel like the right explanation. Ludwig didn't even seem to recall being put in danger, let alone that hung up about it.

All the same, his face fell a bit, and he sighed.

Lukas used his silence as an opportunity to throw out, slyly, "Looks like you've been worrying about him. Miss him when I take him?"

If Lukas had been friendlier, like Magnus, he might have winked as he had said that, and Berwald was glad he hadn't, because otherwise he mighta punched Lukas right in his pretty nose.

Christ, he hadn't been this aggressive since Magnus had challenged his authority that first time.

Ludwig was trouble, alright. One way or another.

Sure _did_ miss him, though. When he wasn't around.

Lukas was a creep all the same.

When he finally left Lukas to his own devices, trudging back inside and feeling dumb for some reason, he found Magnus and Timo sitting at the kitchen table, heads pressed together as they whispered to each other, and, for the first time, Berwald realized that their fingers were intertwined beneath the table.

How long had that been going on, that he hadn't noticed? A lapse in observation on his part.

A pang.

It didn't seem fair, somehow, but not like it had been before. It hadn't seemed fair before that Magnus was able to charm Timo off his feet, sure, but now...

Somehow...

It didn't seem fair that they had each other, and he still found his own hands very much empty.

Ludwig's hand only ever seemed to be in his hair, and only briefly.

...not that it was the same thing, anyway. Ludwig had never actually tried to grab his hand. His gestures had been friendly. Nothing more. Ludwig frequently attempted to tame Magnus' messy hair, so it didn't really mean anything.

Not the same.

Irritable yet again, he sought out Ludwig, if only because he figured he may as well see what the hell the sneaky bastard had brought back so that he wouldn't have to think much about his own lonesomeness.

His head hurt a bit.

Ludwig had been acting strangely, but he hadn't ever lowered his fingers from his hair down to his cheek. Ludwig had called him handsome that day, yeah, but he probably hadn't meant it.

Just tryin' to make him feel better.

Timo hadn't been interested in him, he had known it all along, because Magnus _was _handsome. Why would Ludwig, as handsome as Magnus (or almost), be interested in him?

Not that he _cared_, mind.

Nope.

It occurred to him then that he was actually arguing with himself in his head.

Not good.

Ludwig was trouble.

He was glad all the same to find Ludwig in the room he shared with Lukas, so that his mind would stop trying to sabotage him.

Kind of strange, stepping inside a room that was not really his. He'd slept in here a couple of times, but with Lukas. When Ludwig was in here, it was like setting foot in some kind of forbidden land, and he could already feel his stomach tightening in nervousness as he pushed the door open with a careful finger.

This merciless, churning anxiety was probably what Romeo had felt when he had climbed up Juliet's terrace—

Oh, _God_.

Embarrassment.

Magnus. Too much fuckin' Magnus. Startin' to rub off on him, and that was a horrifying, horrifying notion. Listening to Magnus spout Shakespeare whenever he could had damaged his brain, for sure. He was starting to lose his grip on the real world.

And no doubt that Ludwig would have kicked him right in the ribs again if he had ever known that he had been compared, even so innocently, to a woman.

Still...

Ludwig sat quite idly on the bed, alone, feet crossed and hands behind his head, and when Berwald stood there in the frame, he glanced up, and lifted his chin in silent greeting.

The bright sun streaming in through the window lit Ludwig's pale eyes up gold.

If one day he and Magnus ever became, God forbid, _friends_, then he would ask the son of a bitch to say that one line aloud, the only one that Berwald had ever been somewhat familiar with. The one with the window.

Just to see how it sounded.

The springs in the bed squeaked as Ludwig shifted his weight and waited for Berwald to speak.

The bed was small—Ludwig and Lukas must've been pressed up against each other somethin' close, and that seemed a bit unpleasant. No doubt that at some point during the night, in the midst of dreaming and turning, they wound up with an arm or leg tossed over each others', because that was what had happened the few nights that Berwald had tried to stuff himself into this tiny bed.

He could imagine them, criss-crossed during the night, and meanwhile, he found himself huddled on the couch, cold and alone.

He could smell Ludwig's shaving cream, mingled with Lukas' cologne. Two scents that he realized he didn't find all that pleasant together. Made him uncomfortable. Hard to say why. Lukas and Ludwig had been sleepin' in the same bed for a long while, now, hadn't they?

Why would it bother him now?

After he had been standing there for an awkward amount of time, Ludwig finally addressed him.

"Can I help you with something, Berwald?"

He opened his mouth to answer, fell still suddenly at the tone of Ludwig's voice, and shifted his weight.

Hadn't heard that voice, before.

Low and mellow, more of a velvety rumble, something that Berwald could only imagine that someone like Magnus would try to pull off when he was attempting to be particularly appealing in Timo's eyes. Sultry, although a misplaced and awkward and somehow _terrifying _word, seemed to describe it pretty well.

He wondered all of a sudden if this was the voice that Ludwig used when he crooned with Magnus in that Jutland speech they used.

He couldn't say why that thought made him squirm.

Good God, something was wrong with him. He'd been so antsy lately. Ludwig getting lost had done in his nerves, it seemed.

That was the only excuse he could come up with.

Because he certainly wasn't _jealous_. That wouldn't make any sense.

Yup—cuckoo.

Finally, he found his voice again, and asked, simply, "Where'd ya put all that stuff? I wanna take a look."

Ludwig stared at him, rather intensely, and Berwald hardly had time to shuffle his feet before Ludwig answered, "In the chest."

Implying the oak chest that lied at the foot of the bed, Berwald came fully inside the room, and Ludwig just watched him the whole while.

He fell to a knee before the trunk, lifted up the heavy wooden top, and hesitated.

Lukas' damn cables and wires, tangled all over the place like morbid streamers.

Shit made him nervous as hell, he wouldn't lie.

Reluctant to dig his hands in the dangerous depths, he peered up at Ludwig, who was leering down at him from the bed, and prodded, "Which side you put it on?"

He didn't really want to go on a fishing expedition in the middle of Lukas' _hobby_. Who would?

"Left," Ludwig said, simply.

"My left?"

"My right."

"So...my left?"

"No, your right."

...what?

Berwald fell still for a moment, furrowing his brow and narrowing his eyes, and when he glanced up, catching the exceedingly serious look upon Ludwig's face, he knew he was being had.

My right, your right?

His fingers gripped the edge of the chest, and, with a great sigh, Berwald finally just stuck his hands in and rooted around.

He was pretty sure that there was a cold sweat upon his brow as he did so.

Eventually, heart hammering away, he found the satchel of goods, and couldn't wrench his hands up out of those wires fast enough.

When he pulled himself to his feet, Ludwig's seriousness had turned into a strange smirk, and he just drawled, "That wasn't so hard, was it?"

His crossed feet uncrossed and crossed again, hands still behind his head in easy confidence, and the smirk was steadily reverting back into a leer.

Berwald could only tilt his head, and wonder, 'Who the hell is _this _guy?'

Not the same Ludwig that had refused his helping hand long ago, that was certain. This Ludwig seemed more like the kinda guy that woulda grabbed his hand and yanked him down to the floor instead.

...for whatever reason.

Gripping the bag in his hands, he backed up, meaning to escape from Ludwig's hawkish gaze, but before he could even gain a yard Ludwig had ordered, firmly, "Sit."

_ He _was supposed to be the leader here, and yet somehow Berwald found himself sitting immediately, obeying Ludwig's command like a damn dog.

His head was a little fuzzy.

Taking a careful spot as close to the edge as he could, he glanced over at Ludwig anxiously, and had nearly forgotten about the bag in his hand until Ludwig asked, in a softer voice, "Aren't you gonna look?"

His first thought was a dumb, 'Huh?'

Somehow, sometimes, Ludwig had a way of mesmerizing him without even trying.

Not really a good thing. He was gonna find himself bleeding to death in the forest one day if he couldn't keep his mind focused.

He finally managed to tear his eyes away from Ludwig, look down, and open up the bag.

Bullets, of different lengths. A canister of something that smelled curiously like gunpowder. New compasses. And something else.

A German scope, the exact same as the one that had been on his rifle. His rifle, once, but Ludwig's now.

A familiar, comforting sight.

Pulling it out and turning the scope over in his hands, he looked up at Ludwig, and asked, curiously, "Did yours break? You shoulda said somethin', I woulda got Eduard to find ya a new one."

Ludwig, one foot swaying away easily, said, "Mine's fine. That's for you."

Oh.

The expression on Ludwig's face was hard for him to put a name to, but that hardly seemed like a concern anymore. Not with the feeling that was writhing its way into his chest.

Ludwig had thought of him when he had gone out, and had likely parted with something important to obtain this gift.

A very simple thing. People did nice things for other people all the time.

It meant more than he could put into words.

Finally, he gathered his voice, and said, lamely, "Thanks."

"Sure."

He had been trying to do everything in his power _not _to encourage Ludwig, but, hell, he couldn't really help it; he reached out, clapped Ludwig's knee in a burst of friendly affection, and felt himself smiling.

"Thanks," he said again, and Ludwig was smiling, too.

Because it was the nicest thing anyone had done for _him_ in a while.

Actually...

It was really the only time he could remember that someone had done something nice for him at all.

Every time he looked up, it seemed, Ludwig meant a little more.

* * *

><p>Summer was high.<p>

The tally of men on both sides had gotten high, too, far too high.

The Forest Brothers were steadily dwindling. A rather hurtful fact.

Somehow, the forests were harder to navigate in the heat than they were in the snow.

Berwald dreaded seeing them now.

Dressed darkly to match the earth, the heat built up steadily over the day, stifling, the glare of the sun, even through the foliage, was unbearable, and the fuckin' mosquitoes were pushing him towards the edge of his patience.

The constant chatter of the birds made it hard to hear approaching soldiers.

The sound of the leaves and branches swaying in the wind, rather than being comforting, constantly broke his concentration.

He was starting to hate it here. Sure as hell had been easier in winter.

His mind had been scattered lately, and when they set out one morning, he realized he didn't even fuckin' _feel _like it. He just didn't feel like it.

Rather go back in and toss himself on the couch.

All the same, he lifted his foot, took a deep breath, and started forward. He had signed himself up for this, the very first time he had ever picked up a gun.

The trees approached.

A voice cut him short.

"Berwald."

Freezing still, he looked back, and Ludwig was standing there, gun slung over his shoulder. He knew it was Ludwig, although why he was here in front, rather than in the back, was a mystery.

Gloved hands reached out, suddenly, and fell into his hair.

A jolt.

It didn't take him long to realize that Ludwig was tucking the loose strands of blond under the darkness of his hood. He hadn't even thought about it, really, and that was bad.

Ludwig had followed him, to make sure he was at least prepared.

He'd been getting lax lately. The irritation was clouding his mind.

A glint of his hair amongst the woods would have been dangerous.

Ludwig methodically pinned every strand back, straightened everything else as he saw fit, and when Berwald met his standards, Ludwig smacked him on the back and sent him off, like he was Berwald's goddamn mother, afterwards trotting to the back where he belonged.

Berwald set off into the forest, and he was quick to notice that he suddenly felt a bit eager. Couldn't explain why—probably just the adrenaline, waking him up a bit.

Anyway, the faster he got through this route, the faster he could get back to the house.

And Ludwig.

The next time they went out, he found himself failing to pin his hair under the hood.

He wasn't really sure why he didn't.

Because he wouldn't admit to himself that he just liked the feel of Ludwig's fingers, and he couldn't think of another explanation. He was too proud to sit down and just say to himself that Ludwig was growing on him.

Thick-headed.

His stubbornness, however, seemed to be hardly daunting to Ludwig, and one night, Ludwig seemed particularly determined to break it down.

Almost two months had gone by since Ludwig had been lost in the forest, two months of this intimidating new Ludwig, and that night had been the first time in a while that they had had the time or energy to sit down and drink together.

Berwald found that he had missed their time together, sitting in a circle and enjoying each others' company.

Even Magnus'.

The days now were growing hotter, but the nights were still chilly enough to warrant the fireplace, and when Magnus and Timo came home with alcohol, Berwald had had no qualms about joining them.

Some part of him hoped that if Ludwig were drunk, he might crack and make a mistake and do something in front of the others, and Berwald would know once and for all if it was just in his head.

And Ludwig got drunk, alright, but somehow he still kept a grip on himself until the time was right. Even so intoxicated that he bumped his head on the table trying to grab a glass, Ludwig still had enough restraint to plot his moves.

Goddamn boot-camp had instilled that within him, no doubt.

Lukas retired early on, a staggering Magnus was led to bed by an equally staggering Timo a few hours later, and Berwald was already far beyond being tipsy.

In the end, it was only Ludwig and himself that remained, and that was just fine with him.

Although...

Now that they were alone, _that_ Ludwig was quick to come out.

And this Ludwig had no problem with making Berwald feel absolutely helpless, more so than the sober one could.

Not necessarily in a bad way.

Nothing malicious, certainly. Nothing about Ludwig was mean-spirited, and yet he still had the uncanny ability to make Berwald flinch.

They passed the remnants of the bottle back and forth, and every so often, when Ludwig took it, he made sure to brush his fingers over Berwald's.

No harm there.

Berwald found himself reaching out and giving Ludwig a friendly shake to the shoulder, when he felt like it, because honestly Ludwig was the only one he felt comfortable enough around to do so.

Placing his hand on anyone else would have earned him a strange look.

Even Lukas would have done a double-take at that.

Not Ludwig.

Their eyes met, once in a while, and it occurred to Berwald at times that he felt something close to _happy _when Ludwig was around.

Clumsy words floated around his head, but he couldn't pin any of them down, and even though he wanted to express these sentiments to Ludwig, he just couldn't find his voice.

Well.

They'd come to him eventually.

In the meanwhile, Ludwig seemed to have plenty to say.

Bleary-eyed and slurring words so badly that he was barely even comprehensible, Ludwig looked over at Berwald, loose bangs falling into his eyes, and broke into one of those great smiles he had been seeing recently.

The ones that made him feel a little bit dazed.

"It's late," Ludwig said, cheeks flushed red and teeth gleaming in the firelight. "Aren't you tired? Why don't you come to bed?"

Erhm—

There was that helplessness that Ludwig was so good at bringing out.

Shifting suddenly and feeling extremely jittery even through the intoxication, Berwald could only say, slowly, "Er... What?"

_ Come _to bed?

Ludwig just smiled all the more, turned his unfocused eyes back to the fire, and he then said, "You should go to bed. It's gettin' late."

Ah. Now it was _go _to bed, was it?

Ludwig was messing with his head, alright.

"Yer still sittin' on my bed," he said, perhaps unwisely, and the look Ludwig sent him for some reason made him want to keel over dead from embarrassment.

An exceedingly intense expression, as Ludwig's piercing eyes had him stuck, and for a godawful moment, Berwald was certain that Ludwig was just going to scoot over and say, 'So lie down! There's room for both of us here!'

He wasn't sure he coulda handled that, not as awkward as he was.

This bold Ludwig was going to be the death of him one day.

"Am I?"

A short silence, and then Ludwig stood up, wobbling back and forth, and when Berwald leapt up and placed a hand on his back to steady him, he was pretty sure that Ludwig was leaning backwards then on purpose.

And he was pretty sure that he wasn't really complaining.

All the same, he kept one hand on Ludwig's back and grabbed his arm with the other, and led Ludwig towards his room.

"You know," Ludwig began, as Berwald tried to keep him balanced enough to make it to his bed, "I say next time we make Lukas take the couch."

Ludwig turned his head to stare at him, so close that their lips would have brushed together if Ludwig had been a little taller, and Berwald could only swallow, and keep on walking.

He could feel how unholy red his face was, and knew that, even dead drunk, Ludwig could see it too.

Ludwig was beaming again, apparently quite proud of himself for the reaction he had produced. Kinda sloppy, the smile, but the effect was still rather dazzling.

Berwald found himself swallowing again, dryly, when Ludwig reached up a too-warm hand and ran it down the stubble on his cheek.

Couldn't breathe.

Staggering suddenly, whether by accident or intentionally, Ludwig took a fistful of his shirt, and Berwald was somehow relieved and disappointed when the bedroom was reached.

Damn door hadn't seemed so close a minute ago.

Some little part of his mind actually had considered, just a little, that maybe kicking Lukas onto the couch hadn't been such a bad idea. Not just so that he could share the bed with Ludwig, no, just so that he wouldn't be stuck onto that tiny couch every single night.

Right.

That was why.

Reaching out, he pushed the door open, gently, and tried to pull Ludwig through.

They weren't exactly stealthy, not as drunk as Ludwig was, but somehow he managed to successfully toss Ludwig down upon the bed all the same. Lukas shifted, but if he had woken then he did not show it. He could be glad for that; Lukas would have had no problem embarrassing him all the more.

He tugged Ludwig's boots off, out of courtesy, and as he meant to leave, Ludwig grabbed another handful of his shirt. Soft, muttered words he couldn't understand, and he could feel the fist in his shirt tugging him back.

Oh, damn. Now what?

His pulse was racing all of a sudden. Way too warm in here. Time to put the fire out.

He stood there, and finally gathered enough sense to reach gently down, taking Ludwig's hand in his own and prying the fingers carefully apart.

He got off easy that night; Ludwig's fist fell down onto the bed, and he was out like a light.

Berwald made a swift escape.

In the morning, Ludwig came crawling out of bed after Berwald had already awoken. He looked pretty terrible, no doubt feeling terrible, too, but Berwald still made sure to keep a rather intent gaze upon him, just to see what he would be up to now.

Every day, Ludwig seemed to have a new trick up his sleeve.

Berwald was always on his toes.

This morning, though, the hangover was enough to keep Ludwig down.

At least for a few hours.

Afterwards, Ludwig sat there at the kitchen table, slouched and disheveled and neck craned downward, and yet when Berwald came into the room, he still managed to look up through the bangs that were plastered to his forehead, rough as he was, and give a crooked smile.

A vision of youthful confidence.

Even through the stubble and the shadows beneath his eyes, through the pallid shade of his skin and the obvious headache and the squinting of his sore eyes in the sunlight, the way that Ludwig was smiling still lit him up.

Oh, _damn_—no one had ever smiled at him like that.

Berwald was fairly certain, seeing that smile, that even though by all rights he should have been drawing blanks, Ludwig remembered pretty well what had gone on last night, at least the important parts.

How awkward.

Knowing that Ludwig surely remembered saying, 'Come to bed,' and was probably thinking of something he could say right now to outdo himself.

He sat himself down at the tiny table, putting himself in perhaps a dangerously close proximity with Ludwig, and tried to pretend that nothing was out of the ordinary.

He waited.

Like with much else, it didn't take long for clever Ludwig to come up with something.

A sudden, low whisper startled him. So did the tone of voice.

"You look good this morning."

A guttural, husky intonation that he had never heard Ludwig use, even stranger than the tone he had taken on that day in the bedroom.

It took a second for the words to sink in.

Oh—!

Berwald started upright, tossing his palms on the table, heart pounding and eyes wide, and just said, dumbly, "Um! Huh?"

Ludwig just kept on leering at him, gaze heavy and lidded, and after a second, he shifted tone again.

"I said, it looks good this morning. The coffee, I mean."

"...oh."

Ludwig's leer was starting to show his teeth, canines pokin' out like a damn wolf as he focused his attention down on his mug, and Berwald was starting to really consider that Ludwig was attempting to kill him via heart-attack.

Confusion.

Was he hearing things now, or was this just like last night?

It seemed that, with Ludwig around, he didn't really know anymore whether he was coming or going.

He didn't know who was in charge here.

Ludwig said one thing, but meant the complete opposite. Ludwig evaded one thing here and was painfully persistent over there. He found himself constantly on the defensive, as he had long ago when Lukas had first come home with a bristling Magnus in tow.

Ludwig's aggression was not malicious, not like Magnus' had been. He found himself fighting for control, alright, but when Ludwig was seeking to overthrow him, Berwald couldn't exactly say that he minded all that much.

He wasn't sure what Ludwig really wanted, but he wasn't so dumb that he didn't know it would be something on the pleasant side.

Ludwig was a damn bit of trouble, like Magnus had always said.

When Berwald looked in the mirror sometimes, he realized that he was starting to get a crease in the middle of his brow. Already gettin' frown wrinkles and hardly thirty.

Ludwig made him scrunch his eyes so much in confusion.

Well...not the worst thing he could have, he supposed.

That night, after the others had gone to bed, he found himself sitting cross-legged on the couch, turned towards the inside as Ludwig sat on the other end, and they faced each other as they started drinking again.

Berwald had instigated this night, and he already had plans for the next night, too. He was probably going to end up turning Ludwig into an alcoholic, just trying to get him to keep looking at him like _that_.

The way that Ludwig smiled at him was worth nearly anything.

The way that Ludwig looked at him made him feel far more important than anything he had done so far in this war had.

The _sight _of him—God.

He remembered the first time he had laid eyes upon Timo, breathless and red-faced and so damn beautiful, and what he had felt then. That burn in his chest, the hitch of his breath, the way he hadn't been able to take his eyes away, the way his veins had flooded with adrenaline, the way that the world had seemed a little brighter.

He took that, he gripped that memory, and brought it forth to compare it to what he felt now when he looked at Ludwig.

Now, Ludwig was breathless and red-faced and damn beautiful, so it was easy to sit those feelings side by side.

Comparison? Hardly. Not even close.

The burn had turned into acid. His lungs had completely seized. His eyes were glued. The flood of adrenaline had turned into an ocean. The world was on fire.

He hadn't looked at Ludwig the first time and instantly realized that he was attractive, not like he had Timo. Actually, the first time he had looked at Ludwig he had wanted nothing more than to get rid of him and never see his face again. It had taken him a while, a long while, to figure out that Ludwig appealed to him, but hell.

Well worth the wait.

Anyway, who really believed in that 'love-at-first-sight' bullshit?

Hadn't ever worked for _him_, that much was certain. Look where it had gotten him with Timo.

Nowhere.

Every time Ludwig swayed forward tipsily, teeth gleaming in the light and bleary eyes squinted with a smile, every deep breath he took and with every lean against the cushion in a moment of dizziness, every shift of emotion upon his face, the thin sheen of perspiration on his forehead, every time he moved, Berwald was fairly certain that everything was right in the world.

Just seeing Ludwig.

The way his hair came loose when he was intoxicated or tired. The way the square of his jaw contrasted with the sharpness of his nose. The way the open neck of his shirt exposed his collarbone. The way his Adam's apple bobbed when he swallowed. The way the German 'r's came from within his throat rather than his tongue, in a rumbling purr that Berwald could never hope to imitate. The way the thin fabric of his shirt clung to every line of muscle. The way the pale hairs on his arms stood up straight when a cold wind blew.

The way he crinkled his nose when he laughed.

His hands.

His voice.

Whatever was going on outside was hardly a concern.

War—what war?

When Ludwig was around, he was everything.

Everything.

And by God, if _this _was what Magnus felt when he looked at Timo, then Berwald could hold him absolutely no ill will, because there was nothing else like it.

Nothing on earth could ever come close.

Ludwig was a drug, alright. One he was steadily realizing that he couldn't go on without.

If Ludwig were ever lost again, he would tear the world apart to find him.

The prospect of withdrawal was terrifying.

When Ludwig leaned into the cushion a while later, eyes shutting and giving one last sigh, when he fell asleep there and his hands fell loose in his lap, Berwald just stared at him, and watched him breathe.

In the morning, life went on, as it always did, and Berwald looked forward to each day, if only to see what new game it would bring.

Every day, the looks Ludwig sent him became more fascinating.

It occurred to him one night, as he lied on the couch and stared out of the window, that the word he had been searching for, for so long, was 'star-struck'.

That might have been it.

When Ludwig was around, he felt star-struck.

Dazed.

And he _wished_, more than anything, that he could find the courage to say it aloud.

Wherever it was that Ludwig was leading him, however confusing the directions, however many times he got mixed up, he was pretty sure of one thing :

He'd keep walkin' the road, and wouldn't even look over his shoulder, because whatever lied at the end of it was surely going to be damn well worth it.

He could feel it.

...maybe it _was _time for Lukas to take the couch. Just for a night. Or two.

The more and more he thought about it, the more appealing it seemed, and the more he _regretted _not doing it—instead of hauling Ludwig off to bed that warm night, that he had acted upon that look Ludwig had sent him and had gathered up the courage to just lie down, and share the couch.

Ludwig had always been patient with him, and needed to keep it up for a little longer.

Because, one day, he would find the words to say it.

Star-struck.


	13. Port Of Lonely Hearts

**Chapter 13**

**Port of Lonely Hearts**

Fall.

Leaves started drifting from the trees.

They finally moved on, and left Estonia behind.

Not because they had done their jobs successfully.

It was only when Timo's friend had been gunned down, under Magnus' care, that the Forest Brothers suspended operations for a while, and they were no longer needed.

Time to go.

Ludwig had hoped they would return to Sweden, maybe to that little house on the beach where the cars sat idle, but Timo, seething in anger and wanting to _hurt_, led them straight up into Finland.

Ludwig went dutifully along, because Berwald and Magnus followed Timo. Lukas followed Magnus.

He followed Berwald.

Crossing another border was terrifying, but it was easier going by land than by sea. Just patches of scarcely protected barbed wire, search lights, and sometimes a couple of dogs, barking in the distance.

Timo trashed through the land like a bulldozer, leaving quite a bit of destruction (and his comrades) behind him.

For a while there, Timo had actually seemed to just _forget _about them, and they found themselves wandering around for a few days, stuck in some town on the outskirts of a city that none of them could navigate. Magnus and Berwald had stared up helplessly at the signs, all written in incomprehensible Finnish, and Lukas had been furiously studying a map that didn't seem to be of any help. Ludwig just looked back and forth down the streets, checked the compass every so often, and realized that, without Timo, they were all but lost.

Lost.

They roamed the streets, finding cheap motels to crash in at night, crammed into tiny, less than tidy quarters, and in the morning, they resumed their aimless walking, trying to figure out where Timo had gone off to.

The bags were heavy as hell, and they had to stop once because Magnus just got so angry all of a sudden that he tossed down his bags, whirled around, and kicked the nearest building.

Honestly, Ludwig couldn't really blame him for his outburst.

Tempting, to say the least.

They sat under a bridge afterwards, each of them looking very much like kids that had just run away from home, and Berwald stared off into the horizon, eyes squinted like he wanted to either implode or burst into tears.

Magnus kicked rocks around and had chewed on his lip so much that it was bleeding.

Lukas never complained or kicked anything like Magnus, but Ludwig found himself keeping a careful distance from him, because Lukas had started glaring at every little thing that came within range—passersby, dogs, women and children alike, hell, he'd sent a butterfly a foul look—and Ludwig was pretty sure that he was one little nudge away from hurting someone.

Seething.

Everyone was hungry, thirsty, and miserable. Reluctant to spend any of the little money they had for things that weren't absolutely necessary.

The stubble on Lukas' cheeks was an odd sight, as neat as he always kept himself. Magnus was starting to look more than a little homeless.

It was another two days before Timo actually thought to come back for them.

When he came across them in the street, it was somehow Timo who glared at _them_, as if _they _had done something wrong, and it was only because they knew how upset he was that none of them punched him in the nose when he griped, loudly, 'Can't you keep up?'

Berwald looked infuriated, ready to shred Timo to pieces at any second.

Magnus looked sicker than ever; guilty, perhaps.

Lukas was ruffled and irritable. Snappy. Unpleasant.

Ludwig was just _tired_.

Tired of wandering in unfriendly lands. Tired of carting rifles and bullets around.

He was tired of never being able to stay in one place long enough to start calling it home.

They followed Timo, into the wilderness, and when they finally reached their new lodgings, it didn't take long for the tense air to start crackling.

For once, Ludwig was glad he didn't speak Swedish, because the way that Berwald startin' screaming at Timo a little while later was actually pretty scary.

He hadn't ever heard Berwald lose his temper like that.

Magnus, hard to believe, seemed to agree with every word Berwald was saying, and made no move to jump in. Lukas interjected every now and again, on Berwald's behalf.

The way Timo looked at them all afterward...

Kinda hurt.

Like they had betrayed him, somehow, by not being as angry as he was. As if his friend should have meant more to them.

Ludwig was sorry about it, he really was, but he couldn't really be bereft over the death of a man he hadn't known.

Sorry.

Timo stomped out afterwards, after a little bit of screaming of his own, and Ludwig found that he was more hurt by the way Magnus was staring at his feet, face scrunched up and biting his lip and looking like the very definition of miserable.

Seeing Magnus like that was almost as bad as being lost had been.

Berwald was the one to slam the door behind Timo, saying God only knew what, and Ludwig watched him pace around in a huff for a minute, before throwing himself down into a rickety chair and crossing his arms.

This was the first time any of them had truly fought. Not something he was ever looking forward to again.

A little while later, Magnus sat down on the floor, knees to his chest, and buried his face in his folded arms, muttering something incomprehensible. Lukas just sat there, one leg crossed over the other, and glowered out the window with pursed lips and dark eyes.

Somehow, out of all of them, an angry Lukas was the most frightening.

Lukas, who was never fazed by anything.

Lukas, who was truly the most unpredictable.

When Berwald and Magnus were mad, it was uncomfortable, but they would never have truly lashed out to hurt anyone. A couple of punches might have been thrown, but they'd never pull out a gun.

Lukas, though...

Who could say.

Berwald's wrath dissipated a while later, and Ludwig could see, in the steady falling of his face, that he regretted whatever he had said.

It wasn't really his fault.

Timo didn't come back for a few days. In his absence, blind and helpless, all they could do was settle in.

It was then that Ludwig realized how dependent everyone was on Timo. Berwald was the leader, sure, and everyone else had different skills, but Timo was unofficially the navigator, and every ship got lost when the navigator went missing.

Stranded, on this shore.

The place itself wasn't too bad, but Ludwig knew better than to even bother getting attached to it. Before long, right when he was settling in, they would be uprooted again. Made it hard to get excited, when he went out the backdoor and realized there was a lake in sight below.

He just stared down at it from above, shoulders low and eyes feeling heavy, and even when Berwald came out and stood beside of him, he just couldn't seem to find his good mood.

Up the slope on the other side of the house was a wooden shed, or, at least he thought it was, until Magnus seemed a little relieved to find what was apparently a dilapidated sauna.

For all the good it would do.

If this little place were in Sweden, Ludwig would have loved it the second he laid eyes on it.

Out here, though, out in the middle of war-torn Finland...

Seemed dangerous. Isolated, out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded on all sides by forest. The dirt road into town was lined by tall pines, and it had actually been exceedingly unnerving, trekking up this drive and keeping a wary eye on the trees to make sure that no soldiers would come bursting out.

This place wasn't safe.

Maybe that was what Timo had intended.

Better to stay inside whenever possible.

The others seemed to agree.

Magnus just stared out the window, eyeballing the wooden sauna longingly but never setting foot towards it. Berwald watched the lake from behind the safety of the glass, and just traced the gentle waves with his eyes. Lukas, still in a foul mood, had hardly come out into sight, and when Ludwig found him, he was putting together a bunch of bombs, and setting them aside.

Mines.

Whether Lukas intended to plant them or not had yet to be seen.

This place.

A bit bigger than the little shack in Estonia. At least here there were three beds. Very tiny and very shaggy, sinking so low under their weight that collapse was possible, but three all the same.

No more sleeping on the couch for Berwald.

Which was for the best, because there wasn't even a couch to be had. Just a few chairs, and a table that was lopsided.

Not the best place in the world. Not the worst, perhaps.

While Timo was gone, Ludwig shared a bed with Magnus, because Lukas was still frightening and Berwald was moody. Magnus wasn't too far away from being completely distraught at Timo's absence.

Better to keep him company.

In the mornings, though, when Berwald saw him and Magnus trudging out of the same room, it was like someone was trying to burn him with a lighter.

That damn glare.

Ouch.

It would only be until Lukas stopped scarin' him or Timo came back. He knew that Berwald couldn't stand Magnus, but the poor guy hadn't done anything wrong.

Berwald was moody, alright.

In Timo's absence, Magnus all but clung to him, and Ludwig stayed with him, even knowing that doing so was likely setting the line back on whatever ground he had gained in Berwald's confidence.

Well. He'd get over it. Once things settled and once Timo calmed down, everything would go back to normal.

Berwald would just have to get over it.

It wasn't as if Magnus was at fault, although, as far as Magnus was concerned, the whole thing _was_ his fault.

Eduard had been under his care.

He blamed himself for Timo's recklessness, and it was more than unpleasant to see the constant shadow of darkness and sickness upon his face.

It wasn't anybody's fault. They had all been responsible for those men.

When Magnus sat down beside of him on the floor and pressed their heads together, when they started whispering away, when Magnus grabbed his hand, Berwald would just stand up, turn around, and stalk out of the room.

Oh—if Berwald could _understand _what Magnus was saying, Ludwig was pretty sure he wouldn't have been so angry.

Mournful statements. Endless worry.

Magnus' worst fear was of Timo not coming back.

But, eventually, Timo _did _come back, when tempers cooled off, and Ludwig was glad.

Things settled down, at least a little. Lukas and Timo didn't speak to each other, and Berwald was a little stiff, but nobody punched or screamed, so that was probably as good as it was going to get for now.

Magnus trailed after Timo, looking lost, and it was obvious that Magnus was worried that Timo had suddenly developed a death wish.

Timo went out every day.

No matter what.

He was pressing his luck, they could all see it, and Berwald, who was trying to reclaim leadership over them, constantly attempted to thwart Timo's recklessness.

To no avail.

Timo wouldn't listen to him. Never really had, come to think.

Ludwig could see it wearing on him, on all of them, and it was a testament of how tired everyone was when Berwald stood in front of the door one day, blocking Timo's path, and Magnus actually came to his side and completed the barricade.

Berwald and Magnus, so exhausted that they had actually worked together for something.

Lukas never attempted to thwart Timo, and neither did Ludwig.

The way he saw it, it was Timo's decision whether or not to put himself in needless danger, and if it made him feel better about everything, then that was what he had to do.

He was in no place to tell Timo his.

These men knew the risks they took. Timo wasn't a child.

Timo still got by them that day, and it was a little sad, to see the way that Berwald and Magnus looked at each other afterward, shoulders slumped and eyes heavy. They didn't speak, and were quick to part ways afterwards. The one time they had tried to worked together had failed as much as when they fought over something.

Magnus just sat there by the front door, staring at it, and waited for Timo to come back.

Ludwig looked around, saw their situation, and couldn't help but feel a little helpless.

He wanted to say, 'Let's just go out on our own, why don't we?' but he couldn't. They'd get lost, they'd get turned around, they'd wind up on the wrong side of the forest, and then they'd be dead.

All they could do was wait for Timo to calm down and come to his senses.

The days dragged like damn years.

His mind was constantly on Berwald, and yet it seemed exceedingly inappropriate to carry on with shenanigans in the face of their current situation.

If Timo got hurt...

He'd feel pretty shitty about it.

So, he waited.

In the meantime, Ludwig found that Lukas was really starting to scare the hell out him.

If you hadn't seen him, you wouldn't even know Lukas was there, he slunk around so much and was so silent. Christ almighty, it was as if someone had crept up into Lukas' head and set the clock so that the hour was constantly midnight.

This was probably the Lukas a good few soldiers had seen before they died.

Ludwig lied beside Magnus at night, stared up above, and couldn't help but wonder if Lukas was just planning on blowing the entire household to hell while they slept.

He had nightmares about wires.

The never-ending silence from Lukas was starting to get alarming to the point of being stifling, and, finally, Ludwig gathered up the courage to sit on the edge of the bed one evening, look over at Lukas, and say, honestly, "You're really creepin' me out, you know? Are you still mad?"

Lukas was silent for a second, tying a cable, and when he looked up at Ludwig, it was like someone had flipped on a light-switch.

The darkness was gone.

Lukas' voice came out as silvery as it always had when he said, "I'm not now. Thanks for asking."

...Lukas must have selectively chosen to ignore the first half of his comment.

Huh. So fuckin' weird.

Guess that frightening other half of him could be flipped off as easily as it could be flipped on. Better to keep that knowledge handy in case of a future emergency.

After that, Lukas was back to normal (mostly), and finally said a word to Timo. Ludwig felt safe sharing the bed with him again.

As safe as one could truly feel around Lukas, anyway.

Days passed.

The first time they all sat down together again, in an attempt to figure everything out, didn't go very well.

Started off on the wrong foot when Timo, maybe not thinking about it or maybe doing it intentionally, started the conversation by standing up and speaking quite easily in Swedish.

Ludwig hadn't said anything, but he had glowered awkwardly at his feet as Timo seemed quite happy to have this entire meeting without him.

Damn.

Maybe whatever Timo was thinking about doing was something that he was worried Ludwig wouldn't be able to pull off.

He had thought he had proven himself by now, but maybe Timo was still just in a bad mood and felt like hurting Ludwig a little since Ludwig had stayed silent when everyone else had ganged up on him.

Still stung a little.

Timo was quite content to carry on with the conversation, until Berwald finally looked up, brow low and looking irritable, and opened his mouth.

What he said was not quite what Ludwig expected.

"Speak in German, won't ya? We work together or not at all."

Timo sent Berwald a testy look, but changed languages all the same.

Oh. He _loved _Berwald. He was sure of it.

"_Anyway_," Timo began, snippily, "As I was saying—"

Ludwig couldn't help but feel a little irritated, too, and didn't really listen to Timo even though he had started speaking in German.

Hell, none of this was _his _fault.

Everyone had been in such a bad mood lately.

Sometimes, though, he felt like a fifth wheel. They had been well settled together before he had come along, and maybe they had been a little better for it. Common goals and languages. Ludwig hadn't fit in with them as well as they had fit in with each other.

Trying to shove a circle through a square, maybe.

He glanced up, found himself ogling Berwald as he usually did, and quickly lost his train of thought.

Ah, hell, if they were better off before he came, then that was just too damn bad. They'd brought him here, and here he was.

Goddamn, Berwald's open collar was distracting him.

Timo's lips kept on a'movin', but if he was really speaking then Ludwig didn't get the message.

How long had it been now that he had actually touched Berwald? Too long, certainly.

Berwald's stern brow lifted, a little, as they stared at each other, and Ludwig didn't hear a single word that Timo said in the good half-hour that he spoke. When Berwald was looking at him, everything on the outside was little more than blah, blah, blah.

Actually, the next time he seemed to get his brain really working, it was three days later and Timo had given up trying to cajole them into starting their own little war.

Guess he didn't know that Ludwig already _had _declared war, but on a person rather than a country.

His campaign was already well underway.

Putting the flag into Berwald's back was his primary goal now.

A few days later, Timo brought more people into their house—their home, as it was—and it was clear that Timo was planning on wreaking havoc on the Reds whether his friends wanted to help him or not.

There were women in this group, armed as much as the men, and Lukas eyeballed a few of them from time to time, sometimes opening his mouth as if to speak, and deciding in the end that his wires were more important. Probably for the best; as shaky as Timo and Lukas were now, Timo probably would have ruined any attempt Lukas made on one of the girls.

Ludwig would rather not have that switch flipped again.

Anyway, from the way this particular group looked at them, it was likely that Timo hadn't said many kind words about any of them, and if Lukas had tried to saddle up to one of the girls, she probably would have scoffed and scooted away.

Maybe they had been described, in a fit of anger, as cowards.

Hardly.

There was a line between being a hero and being a maniac, and Timo might have accidentally crossed it without noticing.

The others liked helping, sure they did, they liked fighting oppression, but they also liked being alive.

Ludwig especially.

So, let Timo bad-mouth them for now. Wouldn't get _him _out of this house any faster.

Timo had started driving up to roadblocks intentionally with his friends, just so that he could pull out a gun instead of an identification from his wallet.

Soon, this whole fuckin' town was going to be raided because of him, and everyone else would pay the price.

Catastrophe seemed eerily imminent.

Timo was going to get one or all of them killed.

It was kind of sad, in a way, that sitting within the confines of this house was essentially as dangerous as stepping foot into that forest had been. Not knowing, when they lied down to sleep, if soldiers would track them down and knock down the door.

When Timo calmed down and started thinking again, then Ludwig would go wherever he wanted to.

But not right now.

Outside, the forests were red and gold.

The wind grew colder.

When he finally started to get used to this house, and since this place was just as dangerous as Estonia or even more so, Ludwig decided that he may as well take right back up where he had left off.

The flag wasn't getting any higher up the mountain with him just sitting there.

He had gotten off track, with Timo being so volatile. Whatever Timo did was scary, yeah, and the thought of Timo getting hurt or killed was enough to keep him up at night, but, that being said, his world did not revolve around Timo.

It revolved around Berwald, and Berwald was still very much in sight.

It made him a pretty bad person, but that was just how life was.

One morning, when Ludwig woke up, he swung his feet over the edge of the bed and realized that he felt like tormenting Berwald.

Back to normal, then.

So he went about the day, as the others tried to find their new normals here, and he took quite a bit of pride in being able to flick pieces of bread at Berwald's head when the others weren't looking. The first time, Berwald had started upright in his seat, turned his eyes this way and that before realizing who the culprit was, and had just furrowed his brow and shook his head.

The second time, Berwald lowered his head to make it less of a target.

Bullshit; from one sniper to another, Berwald should have known better than that.

The third time, Berwald had lowered his head so far down that his nose nearly dipped into his coffee.

The shadow on his face was ever lightening. Couldn't really seem to get much of a smile out of him this time, though. Just gentle glares of irritation, like Berwald was trying to be patient with a little kid, but maybe there was a little less stress upon his face.

Ludwig tried harder.

By the end of breakfast, Berwald was practically sitting in a pile of crumbs, shaking his hair about like a dog to free it of as much debris as possible, but he looked a little less gloomy for it.

Lukas, as he stood up to leave, reached out and brushed Berwald's hair free of a rogue crumb, saying, 'You're being messy this morning, Berwald. Eat a little slower next time.'

For a second there, Ludwig thought Berwald gave a little bit of a twitching smile.

Almost.

The day passed into a chilly night, and they found themselves without Timo yet again. Magnus, maybe to keep himself from going crazy, dared himself to actually go outside and up into the wooden bathhouse above.

He found a few interesting things stashed away, furniture and household items, and it gave them something to do that night.

Lukas was happy to dust off a little loveseat and try to get it clean enough to sit on.

Ludwig looked up at one point to realize that Berwald had gone missing.

He tracked him down easily enough.

Berwald sat on the bed in one of the rooms, staring down blankly at the floor, and he didn't really seem to know that Ludwig was there until he shut the door and plopped on the bed.

Poor thing nearly collapsed beneath the weight of them. Pretty sure a spring had popped somewhere.

No messin' around in _these _beds, that was for sure.

Ha.

Yeah, right—like that was happening anytime soon. Couldn't even get Berwald to share the bed with him yet, let alone use it.

When he looked over, he could see the exhaustion on Berwald's face, the melancholy, and put aside his wandering thoughts.

"Feelin' alright?" he asked, reaching out to nudge Berwald's shoulder with his own, and it was rather disheartening when Berwald just shook his head.

Sad.

"Worried about Timo?"

There was a short silence, as Berwald gathered his thoughts, and it seemed as if he was struggling with how to word his feelings as he said, slowly, "I should be able to keep him in line. I try to get him to listen, but he won't. He doesn't take me seriously. None of 'em do. Everyone just does what they want."

Helpless.

Berwald was losing control of them, assuming that he had ever really had control in the first place, and Timo breaking the chain to go off on his own was exceedingly threatening to Berwald's authority.

And, honestly, everyone sort of _did _do what they wanted. No plan, no communication.

Dangerous.

Hell, even Berwald broke his own rules, as he had when he had trekked back into that forest.

Together, they were all great as friends, great as roommates, great as refugees.

As rebels, as freedom fighters (or whatever they liked to call themselves at any given time), as militants, then they were not so great anymore.

They couldn't ever seem to agree.

They couldn't agree on a set of ground rules. They couldn't agree on where to go. They couldn't agree on where to stay. They couldn't agree on what their plan of action was.

Even when Ludwig had been held prisoner in the back of their fuckin' car they hadn't been able to agree on what to do with him.

They weren't exactly a shining example of wartime cooperation. They wouldn't win any medals for working together anytime soon, that was certain.

It could have been a damn _egg _sitting before them, and Berwald would have said boil it, Ludwig would say fry it, Timo would say poach it, Magnus would say scramble it, and Lukas would have wanted to turn it into a goddamn missile.

A little strife was a good thing, maybe, but they were all kinda crazy.

"One day," Berwald suddenly muttered, "I think everyone's just gonna go out one day and not come back. One day, we're just gonna get sick of each other and split up. It'd be my fault."

If it ever did happen, it wouldn't be Berwald's fault.

It would be all of theirs, for not being able to cast aside pride and ego for the sake of cooperation.

He should have offered a word of support, perhaps, or maybe he should have tried to reinforce Berwald's confidence as leader.

Instead, when he finally spoke, he said, "So! Let 'em go, if they want. That means it would just be me and you. That sounds nice, doesn't it?"

Yeah, it did.

To him at least.

Berwald looked over at him, and Ludwig thought that Berwald would have looked a little happy. He was surprised, and maybe a little guilty, to see that Berwald suddenly looked like he coulda burst into tears.

Maybe the thought of everything he had built crashing down had been a step too far for Berwald.

Losing the only friends he had ever seemed to have.

Feeling mortified, Ludwig twisted at the waist, repositioned his weight, and meant to say something that would reaffirm Berwald's confidence.

As he moved, another threatening creak of a spring beneath them was sharp in the silence.

Berwald looked down at the bed, reproachfully.

The bed sank a little lower, and, for whatever reason, Ludwig couldn't really help but start laughing.

Too many things running through his head.

The dumb thought that had flashed before his eyes, of finally getting Berwald and dragging him into the bed only to have it collapse in the middle of something fun with a crash, and the others running into the bedroom in a fright, thinking they were under attack, only to see them sticking out of springs and split beams in a compromising position.

How Berwald's face might have looked, when the others turned bright red and shielded their eyes (well, except for maybe that weirdo Lukas, who might have leered away with wide eyes and gawked at them quite happily), how Berwald's voice might have sounded, had he shrieked at them to get out while throwing a shoe at the door.

Oh, God.

Something was fucked up in his head, that much was certain.

This damn bed.

He couldn't stop laughing.

Berwald eyed him for a second, and then pulled off his glasses.

A stifled moan of mingled frustration and trying not to cry and maybe trying not to start laughing, too.

Clenching his glasses in one hand and rubbing his eyes with the other, Berwald just gave a short scoff, and then said, thickly, "I think ya broke my bed."

Ludwig kept on laughing, God help him, and then he grabbed Berwald's head with his hand, pulled him in, and placed a firm, friendly kiss on Berwald's temple.

...maybe he had meant it to be a little more than friendly.

Berwald didn't seem to get that, though, and just sat there for a while before leaning against him. Still, Ludwig let his hand fall to Berwald's shoulder, and kept it there.

He didn't get Berwald to laugh that night, but maybe by the end he felt a little better.

Less stressed about the whole thing.

Ludwig had meant it, though.

Even if every single one of them were to leave, he'd still follow Berwald, wherever it was that Berwald wanted to go.

For war, or anything else.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Ludwig went outside, at dawn, and saw Lukas trudging out of the forest with a basket.<p>

Innocent enough.

When they passed, Ludwig looked down, and saw a stash of forest berries.

"Didn't invite me, huh?" was all he had said, then, and he had half a mind to wander around a little himself.

He took a step, meaning to walk within the first trees of the misty forest, not too far at all, and yet he was stopped when Lukas snatched out and grabbed his wrist.

A tight, inescapable grip.

Ludwig looked back at him, saw the alarmingly blank look on Lukas' face, and when Lukas just shook his head, Ludwig quickly backtracked.

It didn't take him long to figure out why.

The basket was full now, sure, but it had been full of something else when Lukas had stepped into the forest to begin with.

Lukas dragged him back to the house, and Ludwig went without a struggle.

Couldn't even walk down to the edge of the lake now, had he wanted to. Not without knowing where to step.

He spent hours moping.

This place was _so _pretty, and that made it all the worse that he couldn't really enjoy it.

He came out of his room, later, and saw a paper taped up. Lukas had put an alarmingly detailed drawing of his garden upon the wall.

Ludwig spent a damn good few hours staring at it and memorizing every single line, because stepping on one of Lukas' flowers was a death-sentence.

Quite literally.

Berwald's brow was so crinkled now that it never came up anymore, and when Ludwig caught him staring at the drawing, the slumping of his shoulders was apparent.

It was better not to step foot outside unless absolutely necessary.

Timo copied the map, and took it to his friends.

The day seemed long, dreary, and rather moody. Lukas kept to himself, Berwald held a very intense staring contest with the wall, Magnus curled on the loveseat and buried his face in the cushion, Timo was gone like always, and Ludwig cleaned his rifle about ten times before Magnus finally got up and took it from him in agitation.

Feeling helpless.

Didn't get better, either.

That night, one of Lukas' flowers was set off.

It had to be the first night. Just had to be.

The stillness of this isolated place, suddenly shattered by a distant explosion.

Birds, fleeing in great flocks overhead.

The lake rippled.

And they waited and waited, huddled together in the kitchen and waiting for an ambush, but there were never any screams within the forest, never the discharge of a gun, and no soldiers came bursting through the door.

After a while, it was listed off an as unfortunate critter that had put its foot down somewhere it shouldn't have.

The mood was foul again all the same.

Berwald sat in one of the chairs, one leg crossed over the other, and stared out of the window.

Ludwig waited patiently, and by the time the others finally went to bed, Berwald had set his glasses aside, and was holding his temples in his hands.

Misery.

Ludwig took a step, and came to rest behind the chair, putting his hands down on the top of the rickety wood.

It creaked, like everything else in the house did.

"Head hurting?"

Berwald kept his head bowed, and just gave a quick nod.

Ludwig was kind of glad he didn't look up, because if Berwald was squinting his eyes because he was trying not to cry in frustration, then that was something he didn't really want to see.

It was frightening, sometimes, to sit there and actually think about how quickly something could go wrong. How you could wake up to a normal morning and then be dead by the end of the day.

In this place, thinking was almost unwelcome.

"Want some medicine?" he asked, and Berwald didn't answer.

He knew, then, that it wasn't a headache that had Berwald looking so sick.

There was a silence in which he tried to think of something to say, but in the end he decided that speaking was overrated. Nothing he had ever really been good at anyway.

So he reached out, grabbed Berwald's shoulders (oh, man, was that a great feeling—firm muscles beneath his hands), and it only took a second for Berwald to drop his head in compliance.

Everyone was tired, and nobody on the face of the earth had ever refused a free massage when it was offered.

Not a word was said between them as Ludwig started kneading, and he found himself waiting for a hand to rise up or for Berwald to mutter something, but it never happened.

Damn.

He lifted his hands to the back of Berwald's neck, fell still for a second, and he thought about grabbing handfuls of Berwald's hair to yank his head back and kiss him.

In the end, he decided not to.

Now might not have been the right time.

Berwald looked a little agitated.

He bit down on the urge, kept his hands very much on Berwald's shoulders, and let the minutes tick by.

Silence.

In the end, Berwald looked better, but Ludwig felt worse.

He didn't get it—he'd been setting out the roadmap. He'd been lighting up the flares and setting them on the path. Hell, he had practically turned Berwald around, showed him the road, and shoved him on down it.

And yet, still, Berwald had made no move.

No receptiveness. No sign of really even understanding.

Had he not been obvious enough? Was he going to have to sit there and actually spell it out?

Berwald didn't seem to comprehend.

Not once, in the time that Ludwig's hands had been on his neck and shoulders, had Berwald reached up with his own hand. Not once had he tilted his head back.

Maybe...

No. He just needed to try harder. He needed to make it more obvious, if that was somehow possible, because the thought of Berwald just not being interested was too hard to swallow.

Berwald wasn't stupid, but he didn't really seem to have much common sense, either.

He was probably going to have to whirl Berwald around one day and hold up a sign with big, bold letters that read, 'I am in love with you,' because that was likely the only way Berwald would get the hint. And it would have to be '_in _love with you', because knowing Berwald, just an 'I love you' would be misconstrued with 'We're best friends'. If he had actually kissed Berwald, Berwald might have wandered off and thought to himself, 'Germans sure are friendly!'

Good God almighty, Gilbert had made this look so fuckin' _easy_.

Beating this message though Berwald's thick skull was anything but.

Berwald trudged off into his bedroom later on, and Ludwig just walked away that night, thoroughly disappointed at the lack of anything, and roamed the house restlessly.

He wound up on the porch, somehow, and sat there for a while.

Stars overhead.

Waves on the lake in the wind.

The trees swayed back and forth.

The flag was still very much at the base of the mountain rather than the peak.

When he went back inside, cold and yet feeling a little calmer for it all, he walked in on an exceedingly personal moment.

Somewhere, in those hours, Timo and Magnus had gone into the kitchen, and seemed to be having some kind of conversation.

He could see them from the door, but they didn't seem aware of him, cast in shadow as he was around the corner, and carried on completely unaware.

He knew he shouldn't have, but he couldn't help it :

He stayed, and watched.

To see them interact, to see how bold people like Timo and Magnus did it, was far too great an opportunity to pass up.

He kept trying so hard, _so _hard, and yet Berwald still hadn't smiled at him like Timo smiled at Magnus. He must have been doing something wrong.

Magnus was an expert, or at least he looked like one.

It quickly became apparent, however, that what he was witnessing might not have been something he wanted to, after all.

Timo sat in a chair, and Magnus was standing in front of him, staring down at him and speaking quietly.

Timo wouldn't seem to look up at him.

Magnus' voice, so often loud and bold, was soft.

Trembling.

Ludwig didn't understand the words, not a one, but he understood clearly the look on Magnus' face, as he fell to his knees before the stern, foul Timo, and pleaded.

Proud, belligerent Magnus, on his knees and the verge of tears.

Ludwig could imagine the words he was saying.

'Please, stop going out. Stop pressing your luck. I get _so _worried about you.'

Timo just sat there, arms crossed and staring at the wall, and he didn't say a word, and he didn't acknowledge Magnus' presence.

Magnus bowed his head then, under Timo's silence, and Ludwig knew that he had started crying, even if he tried hard not to show it.

Something he couldn't say he had ever wanted to see.

Magnus crying was almost as alarming as if it had been Berwald.

The way those two were.

Hard breathing, as Magnus tried so hard to keep himself together, and finally, Timo turned his head, and looked down at him.

The look on Timo's face was rather frightening. A bit of melancholy, a bit of fondness, but far too much resignation.

Too much of a shadow.

What he muttered, then, was somehow something that Ludwig could only imagine was, 'I love you, I really do, but I just love Finland more.'

Magnus sat there for what felt like hours, although it couldn't have been more than a few minutes, and then he pulled himself to his feet, and trudged off.

Timo sat there, and stared out of the window.

As soon as Magnus was out of sight, his face fell as much as Magnus' had, and he looked just as miserable.

Didn't change the fact that he had hurt Magnus.

Ludwig slunk off from his hiding spot, silently as he could, and started off for his bed, head low and lips pursed. His head hurt, his brain was suddenly thinking so many things at once.

With these men, maybe nothing could compete with the countries they fought for.

Magnus gave everything to Timo, but Timo gave everything to Finland.

Lukas may have looked at women but never offered his hand, because his hands were always full with Norway.

He and Magnus seemed to be the only ones that had put value on a single person rather than an ideal.

He would have given his life easily for Berwald, not so much these poor annexed countries, and Magnus would have let Denmark and Finland burn if it would have kept Timo safe.

It was a bit hurtful, to think that perhaps Berwald would have put Ludwig second to the cause that he was fighting for. That maybe Berwald would have turned his head away, if Ludwig ever pleaded like Magnus had.

He went to bed, lied down carefully next to Lukas, and put his hands behind his head.

He was getting restless.

Thinking too much about these things.

Timo would die for Finland, but Magnus still followed him all the same.

If he wanted Berwald, then maybe it had gone without saying all along that he was running the risk of being second to something else. And he did want Berwald, so it had been obvious all along that certain sacrifices needed to be made.

He'd still follow Berwald, if ever Berwald said that a country came before Ludwig did.

That night, as Lukas slept away, feet twitching in the midst of a dream, Ludwig stared at the ceiling, and let his mind whir away.

Ah, hell.

Why not?

Not like he hadn't been thinking about it.

Turning his head and taking a long, hard look at Lukas, he finally gathered up his courage, sat up, and tossed his feet over the edge. When he opened the door, he knew exactly where he was going, and this time he didn't second-guess himself.

Soon, Berwald's door was looming out before him in the moonlight.

Ludwig thought about knocking, but he decided that additional noise was unnecessary. Berwald was asleep, anyhow, or at least by all rights he should have been.

He grabbed the handle, turned it, and pushed the door open.

Berwald was asleep, alright, but not peacefully.

Tossing. Quiet, muffled moaning.

Berwald had so many nightmares.

As many as he had, perhaps.

Carefully, he came forward and stood by the edge of the bed, leaning forward and settling himself onto the mattress as slowly as possible.

The bed could support him and Lukas. It could support Timo and Magnus. Him and Timo. Timo and Lukas. It had barely survived him and Magnus, and probably couldn't withstand the combined weight of him and Berwald, but he sure as hell was gonna try anyway.

Squeaking of springs and the ominous groaning of wood.

It held, somehow, as he crawled in and lied down, although every time he turned the mattress seemed to sink ever lower.

He pulled the blanket up to his neck, flipped himself onto his side, reached down, and grabbed Berwald's hand.

A deep, gasping sigh, as Berwald came slowly out of the realm of sleep.

It took a moment for him to realize what was going on, and when he looked over and finally saw Ludwig beside of him, there was another deep intake of breath.

Surprise.

A low, scratchy whisper.

"What're ya doin'?"

"Breaking the bed the rest'a the way."

The sheen of cold-sweat was visible upon Berwald's brow, in the dim moonlight, and so was the pulse hammering in his neck.

By now, Berwald had no doubt felt the hand around his own, but he didn't say a word. If anything, come to think, his grip had been returned, although that might have been a subconscious action.

They stared at each other for a while, and then there was a low inquiry.

"Ya gonna sleep here?"

Ludwig would have smiled if he weren't feeling so melancholy, and asked back, "Can I?"

Berwald just gave a deep, "Uh-huh."

Good enough.

They fell still, and Ludwig was glad that Berwald hadn't taken his hand back and shifted position.

Berwald's hand was calloused. Warm. Strong fingers.

The veil of sleep starting creeping down, and the agitation of unpleasant thoughts turned into a mellow lethargy.

Berwald's sleepy eyes opened again, and he said, quite out of nowhere, "You have nightmares, too."

Ludwig met his bleary gaze, and nodded his head.

How had he known?

Maybe it was because they had something in common they shouldn't have.

The hands they clasped now were covered in blood.

Berwald shut his eyes again, and went quiet.

Ludwig wanted to ask, 'Would you stop fighting, if I asked you to?'

He didn't. He was afraid of the answer.

In his mind, he already knew what it was.

'No.'

He lied there all night, Berwald's hand firmly within his own, and it was the first time in his life that he felt _right_. He'd go to hell and back, he'd defy the entire world, the gods themselves, to keep it going.

Anything to keep this feeling.

He'd do anything to keep Berwald.

No country on the face of the planet could have ever meant more to him than this man. Not Denmark, not Finland, not Norway, not Sweden.

Not even the Germany he had once loved enough to die for.

Berwald came first.

To not be lonely anymore.

When Berwald had fallen asleep again, Ludwig leaned forward, silently, and kissed him upon the forehead.

If Berwald put him second, then that was just something he would have to learn to live with, like Magnus did.

Assuming he could get the dumb bastard in the first place.

Giving up?

Ha. Not _him_.

Just needed a new plan, was all.

Well, poking the bull hadn't worked. Guess it was time to bring out the red flag.

Berwald sure did hate Magnus.


	14. Devil's Right Hand

**Chapter 14**

**Devil's Right Hand **

Timo's wrath finally calmed, and his outings decreased.

Berwald was glad, but felt it had taken too long. Timo had put them all in danger, having no care that his desire for revenge would hurt those around him.

Hard to stay mad at him, though, when it was easy to understand how much it must have hurt him to see it all happening. How it must have felt to see a friend gunned down right in front of him. To see his home, under an iron foot.

The need to get even a little.

Timo was getting over it, slowly but surely.

Berwald couldn't remember having ever been so worried in his entire life as he was in this place. Every time he looked at the door, he wondered how long it would be before unfriendly faces stood on the other side. How long it would take before another mine was set off. How long it would be before the glass shattered, as a bullet took out one of the windows.

He worried about everyone, he worried about everything, he worried about Timo courting death, he worried being found out, he worried about the town being raided, but, God help him...

Kinda hard to keep his mind on it all the time when his bed wasn't empty.

Probably made him a terrible person, to let his mind get sidetracked so easily, but no matter how hard he tried, he just couldn't focus.

Not when Ludwig was next to him.

It wasn't an every night event. Every night with both of them crammed into that poor bed might have eventually put them on the floor, so Ludwig only crept in once or twice a week. Maybe that was all he could manage without Lukas asking questions. Ludwig, bold as he was though, probably would have just said, had Lukas asked, 'Yeah, I'm sleepin' with Berwald tonight. See you tomorrow.'

Berwald would rather have had Ludwig beside of him every passing second, even more than every night.

That first night, he had been too stunned by the notion to raise up his arm and throw it over Ludwig's shoulder, let alone try to form words.

He remembered, vaguely, waking up at some point in the night, and scooting himself closer to Ludwig.

He opened his mouth, lifted his head, and had meant to say, 'Can we share the bed from now on?'

Ludwig's deep breathing and closed eyes had cut him short.

Ah, who was he kidding? Even if Ludwig had been awake, he still would have choked.

All the same, it had been nice enough just having company.

The next morning had gone as normally as every other, although he wouldn't lie and say that he hadn't been on cloud nine and jittery the whole day. He had thought that another border had been passed that night between them, that maybe Ludwig would start making bolder moves now, and yet...

Three weeks since then, though, and now things had become a little different.

Different.

He couldn't really put his finger on it, not exactly, but it was painfully obvious that Ludwig and Magnus had started spending more time together. And they had always spend an _exorbitant _amount of time together, so now it seemed that every time Berwald looked up, Magnus was stuck to Ludwig's side.

Couldn't say why.

But he knew that it irritated the hell out of him.

He couldn't figure it out.

It was like Ludwig had just woken up one morning and decided that Magnus was better company than Berwald.

He had gotten so used to Ludwig hovering over him every second these past months that it actually kinda hurt to see him doing the same to someone else.

It had felt better when he had been certain _he _was the center of Ludwig's universe.

...egotistical, maybe, perhaps a bit selfish, but he had wanted Ludwig to keep paying attention to _him_.

Everyone else, on the other hand, seemed rather content nowadays, and that irritated him, too, because he felt that they should have been more in tune with his mood.

Yeah, sure, Magnus and Ludwig were always smiling, practically on top of each other every five minutes, motherfuckers, but he couldn't figure out why Timo was smiling with them. What the hell did _he _have to smile about? And Lukas— Well. Lukas was just Lukas. He didn't count because he always seemed to be in the same mood.

Berwald found himself brooding most days now, barely engaging himself in daily activities.

He picked at his food in the morning, sat alone on the back porch in the afternoon, and cleaned his rifle alone in the corner at night.

Hard to do otherwise.

He picked at his food in the morning because he could barely lift his eyes up for fear of seeing Magnus and Ludwig butting heads and whispering to each other. He sat alone on the porch in the afternoon because Magnus and Ludwig spent the day roughhousing and teasing each other inside like kids. He cleaned his rifle alone in the corner at night because Magnus and Ludwig shared the dusty loveseat to clean their guns.

His head had started hurting the other day and hadn't fuckin' stopped since.

His mood had turned foul.

Every minute of every day was spent glowering at the walls and plotting ways he could make Magnus look like a damn idiot and get Ludwig's attention back.

Childish?

Sure, but he'd acted far worse than childish in years past. Magnus should have counted himself lucky that he hadn't found himself on the end of Berwald's crosshairs yet.

If the son of a bitch kept on touching Ludwig, though...

He sat at the kitchen table, one afternoon, brooding as usual, and hardly noticed that Lukas had stopped in front of him.

Only a poke in his shoulder got him to look up.

Lukas sent him a lopsided sneer, and said, suddenly, "Berwald, can you go out to the back and try to find the brush and bucket? This place is gettin' dirty again."

"Sure," he grumbled, because he was bored and agitated, and cleaning would be better than moping.

So he stood up, banged open the backdoor so hard that he was pretty sure he broke it, and started the trek up the hill to the ruined sauna where everything was stored.

His mind was always somewhere else.

He reached the top, grabbed the bucket that was by the side of the bathhouse, put out his hand, and pushed open the door without thought in search of the brush.

Steam was the first thing he noticed, and, fuckin' Christ, he shoulda known better than to ever listen to Lukas, because when the puff of steam cleared, what he saw was enough to actually make him gasp aloud.

When was the last time he had gasped? Couldn't even remember.

Magnus had been out here for a few days now, messin' around inside, but Berwald hadn't actually ever thought he'd start usin' this damn thing, let alone convince Ludwig to join, oh God.

He caught a quick glimpse of Magnus and Ludwig, standing up and apparently in the middle of a bath, soaking wet and flushed red with the heat, and he was so _grateful_, beyond anything, that he had caught them before the towels at their waists had decided to drop.

Well! Well—wouldn't lie and say that seeing Ludwig like that was the worst thing that had ever happened to him. Not nearly naked as he was, covered in steam and hair darker in the water, standing very much exposed. Maybe the towel dropping wouldn't have been so bad, after all.

Ludwig was a soldier, alright.

He'd glimpsed muscle beneath thin shirts and he'd been on the wrong end of Ludwig's wrath, but actually being able to see was a little different.

It was easy to look at Ludwig and think of him as a kid when he was sitting there easily on the couch, clothed and relaxed and off-guard. 'Kid' wasn't exactly the first word that popped into mind though when Ludwig's physical physique was out in the open. Especially since the kid was in better shape than he was.

Strong thighs. Stronger arms. Firm stomach and wide chest. Muscle everywhere.

A trail of pale hair led down to his bellybutton.

No doubt, however, that Ludwig would have been more impressive still months earlier, when he had been fresh out of the army. Out here, he hadn't been doing much in the way of physical labor, and being a sniper wasn't really considered exercise.

All the same, there probably wasn't a limb of Ludwig's that couldn't have killed someone.

Damn! He had let himself loose a little in these past years, and seein' Ludwig would have made him self-conscious if he hadn't been pretty damn mesmerized.

Stupefied.

The first time he'd seen Ludwig without the majority of his clothing. Worse things, that much was certain. Wouldn't cry about it if he had nightmares about _this _humiliation any time soon.

Magnus' mug kinda ruined the scenery, though. Coulda gone the rest of his life without seeing the bastard naked.

A long silence, as his brain tried to wake up again.

Magnus had dumped soap in Ludwig's hair and was scrubbing away.

Shock.

He remembered the bucket slipping from his fingers, and he remembered the horrific burn upon his face, and he was pretty sure that he remembered whirling around and raising a mortified hand to his forehead.

Oh, _God_. Fuckin' Lukas was a dead man when he got back in there and grabbed his throat—

"You okay?"

Far too loudly and far too stiffly, Berwald cried, "I'm sorry!"

A short silence, as Ludwig was no doubt staring at him in confusion, and then he asked, "For what?"

Hard to say.

It must have seemed strange to Ludwig, who had no doubt spent a great deal of time in less than private scenarios with his fellow soldiers, the way that Berwald had responded. And Magnus and Lukas no doubt had little qualms about stripping down in front of someone else, and Timo didn't, either. He might have been the only one here who would react with embarrassment. Hell, Ludwig hadn't even been naked—he might have keeled over dead if he had been.

Not a death he would have lamented, to be fair. His gravestone would have read, 'I died, but it was absolutely worth it.'

He could hear Magnus behind, voice low and trembling as he struggled against the urge to laugh, as he muttered away to Ludwig in their private dialect.

Mortification mingled with something else.

Something that burned and was exceedingly unpleasant, yes, but he wasn't going to call it jealousy.

Had to be another name for it.

All the same, when he reached down to grab the bucket again, it took an inhuman amount of restraint to keep himself from whirling around again and chucking the bucket right at Magnus' head.

Tempting.

Magnus suddenly burst into laughter, and Berwald finally talked himself into glancing back.

Magnus was leering away at him, teeth nearly stuck to his lip as he eyed Berwald lazily, and Ludwig had arched his neck back, chin tucked low as he studied Berwald curiously.

As if he were thinking, 'Jeez, what's _your _problem?'

If Ludwig was attempting to communicate with him, it fell on deaf ears.

He didn't understand.

Only one thing was exceedingly obvious to him; Magnus' fuckin' fingers, still scrubbing away roughly in Ludwig's hair.

Every one of them seemed perfectly breakable suddenly.

It wasn't the steam then that was burning him.

Finally, Magnus heaved a sigh, shook his head in exasperation, and turned his eyes and attention back to Ludwig with a mutter. Ludwig opened his mouth as if to speak again, but his voice was promptly cut short when Magnus dumped a pail of water over his soapy head.

Feeling pretty terrible for some reason, Berwald took one last glance at them, and stomped off.

Now he was gonna mope, alright, and damn—had he ever thought that he had missed Magnus' company in a bout of group drinking? Because he sure as hell took it back.

Nope. He wouldn't cry, wouldn't cry at all, if anything ever happened to Magnus.

When he trudged inside, he tossed the bucket irritably at Lukas and made a beeline for his bedroom, and when he threw himself in the bed, he rolled over onto his side and glowered at the wall for the rest of the day. And all night long, every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was Magnus, fingers tangled in Ludwig's hair.

The next morning, Berwald woke up and realized that certain things had started irritating him.

A lot.

Maybe it was just being back in Finland, maybe he had just been in a bad mood lately, but goddamn it all if he hadn't suddenly seen Lukas with his arm around Ludwig's shoulder in the kitchen only to realize that he would have liked it better if Lukas hadn't been there at all.

Finland must have been putting him in a foul disposition.

_ Exceedingly _foul—he hadn't ever been mad at Lukas before. Not truly.

It irritated him when Ludwig's attention was focused on Timo, who often said stupid things and somehow got Ludwig to laugh for it.

It irritated him when Lukas leaned down and whispered something in Ludwig's ear, and it irritated him more when a smile crept over Ludwig's face.

It irritated him when Timo and Ludwig parted ways with a friendly bump of their fists.

It irritated him when Lukas dragged Ludwig off into the solitude of his room.

It irritated him when Timo fussed over Ludwig like a mother would.

And by _God_.

The urge to strangle Magnus had reached new, uncharted heights.

He couldn't ever remember hating Magnus so much. Not even back then.

Seeing Magnus now, it would have been more pleasant just to rip his eyeballs right out of his head than to sit there and feel that godawful burning in his chest.

To see Magnus walk up behind Ludwig and tackle him in a friendly embrace. To see Magnus reach out and ruffle Ludwig's hair with the other arm around Ludwig's neck. To see Ludwig standing before Magnus, placing money into Magnus' hand like a fuckin' banker, and to see Magnus grin at him so fondly the whole while. To see Magnus bump into Ludwig very intentionally and press their cheeks together like they were best friends (actually, they might have been just that). To see Magnus _touching _Ludwig, all the time, every moment he was able to.

Touching.

Always touching.

Ludwig was guilty of touching Magnus as much as Magnus was of touching him, but that was hardly the point.

_ Friends_? Bullshit—he didn't care if Magnus and Ludwig were best friends, blood brothers, _real _brothers, birds of a feather, fuckin' long lost cousins, Hamlet and what's-his-name, joined souls from a past life or whatnot. He didn't care _what _they were. Magnus touched Ludwig too much.

Berwald's fingers clenched so often around Magnus now that his palms had permanent indentations of his nails in a neat row.

Every single night, Magnus and Ludwig sat together on the shaggy loveseat.

And every single night, it burned Berwald a little more.

Smoldering.

Magnus had already taken Timo from him. He wouldn't lie and say that it was a completely rational statement, but it seemed like Magnus was tryin' to take Ludwig too, if only because he knew that Berwald liked him.

Magnus had to have everything.

That was what he felt, childish or not.

Sometimes, though, when Ludwig looked up at him from above Magnus' head, he couldn't help but see the leer on his face and wonder if maybe Ludwig was fuckin' with him again.

Maybe Ludwig was frolicking around Magnus so much in an attempt to make him jealous.

Jealous? Ha—for what? Nice try! He wasn't...

Ah, fuck it, just fuck it, he wasn't even going to bother anymore. Ludwig was around Magnus, and he was jealous.

There.

Actually, he was beyond jealous. More like infuriated. He couldn't ever remember feeling this way. This kind of rage had gotten him into trouble a long time ago.

He kept his gaze on them, always, and plotted.

Once, he had done everything in his power to distract Timo from Magnus. Now, he did the same with Ludwig.

As they had once tugged him back and forth, so they did now.

No doubt Magnus' tugging was simply from the fact that he considered Ludwig a friend, and wanted to spend time with him accordingly, but Berwald couldn't help but think it was something else.

Magnus already had Timo. What else did he want?

He _was_ being childish, no doubt, but this bad mood just wouldn't go away.

Anyway, whether Magnus had any ulterior motives or not, he sure did seem thrilled that somebody was paying him the attention he no doubt thought he deserved.

Magnus said 'go', so Berwald said 'stay'.

Magnus said 'left', so Berwald said 'right'.

Magnus said 'up', so Berwald said 'down'.

Ludwig humored them, but Berwald found that unless he actually physically intervened, Ludwig would always heed Magnus.

Berwald found himself constantly restless.

Agitated.

Maybe it was being trapped in the house that had him so foul.

Days came and went. The door seemed more appealing with every one of them.

They shouldn't, they knew it, but you could only be cooped up inside for so long before you wanted to go out, whether it could kill you or not. They had darted up to the sauna from time to time, quickly, but going any farther had been reserved for special occasions. Hadn't even left the porch unless necessary.

They crept outdoors, tentatively at first, and then grew a little bolder.

Out in the distance, there might have been snipers, but they took their chances.

Being inside every second was close to insanity.

Prison.

Going outside, although it was a wonderful feeling, was more of an instance of Berwald shooting himself in the foot, because Magnus and Ludwig, energetic as they were, just found more things to do.

Goddammit.

Together. Like always.

It pricked him more each day, and by the sixth consecutive day that Magnus led Ludwig to the front door and intended to drag him out to roll around in the leaves or whatever the hell they did, Berwald absolutely regretted ever opening the door in the first place.

If he had been foul before, he was just festering now.

Ludwig loved being outside, and that would have been great if it had been Berwald at his side instead of that loud-mouthed bastard. If Ludwig would have dragged him out the door rather than Magnus.

Berwald spent most of his time now in the kitchen, popped up on his toes and lifting the blind up with a finger as he glared through the glass at Magnus and Ludwig.

Maybe he had turned into a bit of a stalker.

Perfectly reasonable, surely—he didn't trust Magnus.

Whenever they trudged up the hill to the wooden bathhouse above and disappeared within, Berwald was fairly certain that he was one heartbeat away from having a coronary.

Felt more like summer, as hot as he was all the time.

The ninth day, Magnus stood on the porch, waiting for Ludwig, and Berwald managed to gather control of his hands long enough to reach out and grab a fistful of Ludwig's sleeve.

Ludwig fell still where he stood, quite tranquil beneath Berwald's grip, and waited patiently as Berwald tried to form words.

"Why don't ya just stay inside...today. For now. Erhm, that is, if you want."

Pitiful.

Ludwig's smile was a little knowing, and Berwald could only furrow his brow and hope that he hadn't made a fool of himself.

Magnus and Ludwig alone together was suddenly the most frightening thing in the world.

Ludwig straightened up, smile ever widening, and finally he said, "Well. I guess I could stay in. If you want."

Sure as hell did want that, and when Ludwig turned around and came away from the door, he had very nearly heaved a sigh of relief.

Tucking his hands in his pockets and lowering his chin, Ludwig waited for him to act.

Almost like he had been expecting this.

Huh.

Berwald opened his mouth, and faltered, because what he really wanted to say was more like, 'If I see you hangin' around Magnus again I'm gonna punch both of you in the nose.'

Might not have gone over well.

Possessive? Nah.

...well. Maybe a little.

Seeing his immobility, Ludwig just sighed and shook his head, and then threw a heavy arm around Berwald's shoulders.

"Come on, then!"

Oh, God, the way his heart was hammering away coulda made him faint right there—

"What did you have in mind?"

He looked over, dumbly, and wondered if Ludwig would keep his arm there for as long as it took him to answer.

Couldn't even think right, let alone speak, so he just stared at Ludwig and hoped he would lean over farther, maybe press their cheeks together as he did so easily with Magnus.

No go.

Ludwig just stood there, waiting for him to say something.

Waiting for him to say _it_, maybe.

It.

Saying _it _was exceedingly terrifying somehow, even though some kind of base had already been established between them. Ludwig kept staring at him, kept waiting, and yet he kept choking.

A sound at their side, as the door opened halfway.

Magnus poked his head in, and said, "Hey, Ludwig, come help me. I'm trying to fix up the backdoor. Keeps gettin' stuck for some reason."

...oops.

Without waiting for an answer he went back out, and Ludwig turned to Berwald.

"Well," he began, carefully, "I'll be back in a minute. Maybe you should think of something you want to do, and when I'm done, you can tell me."

Christ, if Ludwig were any more obvious he'd be beating Berwald over the head with a stick.

And still, all Berwald did was nod his head.

Ludwig left, Berwald moped, Ludwig came back, and Berwald choked.

In other words, a normal day.

Ludwig looked a little disappointed at his silence, but stayed there with him all the same that day.

When this war was over with, maybe they'd be writing legends about Ludwig's inhuman patience. Sure as hell deserved as much study as any mythology.

Time passed. The trees stood bare.

Berwald found himself beside Timo one day, scrubbing clothes on the rippled board, and he glanced over from time to time, opening his mouth and then thinking better of it.

He wanted to say, sternly, 'Listen here, you, keep your man away from mine.'

The only problem with that statement, had he managed to say it, was that while Magnus was very much Timo's man, Ludwig was not his.

And another problem was that Timo didn't seem bothered by anything going on.

He didn't get that.

He didn't understand how Timo could sit there and watch Ludwig and Magnus all but nuzzling each other on the fuckin' loveseat and not get mad about it. He didn't get how Timo could listen to Magnus and Ludwig murmuring away in their own language and not feel a little threatened by it. He didn't quite comprehend how Timo could see them being together so often and not be irritated by it. How Timo could see Magnus keep an arm over Ludwig's shoulders and just not care.

Come to think, actually, Timo always just smiled, and sometimes he sent that smile in Berwald's direction.

Timo must have seen something he didn't.

To be fair, though, lately all he had been seeing was red.

It was a lot easier to just want to murder Magnus than it was to try and figure out _why_.

It was probably around then that Berwald realized that Ludwig had turned him into a schoolgirl. Being jealous over absolutely nothing and glowering around corners. Rolling around in his bed in fits of angst. Whining in his head about how he was better than Magnus so by all rights Ludwig should be more interested in _him_.

He felt like he was sixteen years old again.

How embarrassing.

Next, he'd be scribbling love notes and shoving them under Ludwig's door.

In the end, he completed his clothes-washing without ordering Timo to tell Magnus where he could shove it, and tromped back inside.

...wonder how deep he could get Magnus under the dirt before he got caught.

Couple of feet, at least. That damn hair probably woulda poked outta the ground and given him away, though.

Not the best way to spend his time, perhaps, and as it was, he wasn't the only one trying to murder Magnus. Soviet soldiers seemed keen on the idea as well, once they found their feet as a group again and started working.

It wasn't the first time he'd been to Finland, but it was the first time he'd been here that he had been responsible for the safety of someone other than himself.

Pressure.

None of them listened to him as it was, and to think that he would tell them to do one thing and have them do the opposite and get hurt for it was horrifying.

On second thought, it was more horrifying to think they'd actually listen to him for once and get hurt for it.

Timo stayed with them now, but still did very much whatever he wanted. Lukas came and went when he pleased. Magnus and Ludwig, of all people, were the ones who listened to him the most, but Ludwig had a tendency to embellish his orders a little and Magnus cropped off some edges.

He tried to keep them together in their own small group; Timo's friends, reckless as they were, didn't hold Berwald's interest. Let them do whatever. He'd be low-key and keep his men alive for it.

They spent most of their time nowadays just roaming the forests on the edge of the town, keeping an eye on the lines and making sure that no soldiers came calling. Odd jobs here and there, if Berwald found it to his liking, and once in a while they loaned themselves to towns outside.

The Winter War had officially ended, but many Finns seemed determined to drag it on for as long as possible. Sometimes they asked for help as group. Sometimes they only wanted one or two.

It was somehow worse, going with them by himself.

Worse still was sending Lukas or Magnus. Timo was an instigator here, but Lukas and Magnus went only because he told them to and because Timo encouraged them. Bad enough, but damn if sending Ludwig through the door didn't leave Berwald sitting there and feeling sick as a dog until he finally came back.

If anything happened to Ludwig, he was fairly certain that he would go and throw himself down into the damn lake. The thought of Ludwig getting gunned down with only strangers around him. Men who didn't know him, who saw him as more of a commodity than a brother.

How would they know that Ludwig wanted to go to the black forest?

For the most part, his constant fretting was for naught, and every time now that he had sent one of them or gone himself, they had all come back in one piece.

It was Lukas, of all of them, who got hurt first here in Finland. Actually, it was the first time since they had been together that one of them had gotten shot.

Lukas, going out as he did without warning and without telling anyone.

Reckless.

It wasn't strange to wake up one morning and realize that Lukas wasn't inside, but he had been gone that entire day, and the night had fallen long before he actually came back. He stumbled through the door more than he walked in, and the stark shade of bright red stood out rather dramatically against the white of the coat.

A long, heavy silence, as they gawked at Lukas, nobody appearing to comprehend the scene.

It took a while to get moving.

"What happened?" was the first thing that Berwald managed to say, and Lukas just shook his head, looking foul and breathless and wincing when he struggled to get out of the coat.

Magnus rushed forward to help him pull it off, and Ludwig was already scrambling for their pitifully equipped first-aid kit. Timo grabbed the nearest rifle and ran out the door.

Berwald just stood there.

"Got spotted," Lukas finally grumbled. "Didn't see him 'til he was on me. Missed me though. I got him."

"Anyone come after you?"

Lukas shook his head.

"Missed my ass!" Magnus cried, when the coat was off and the blood pouring from Lukas' right shoulder was quite obvious.

All the same, Berwald felt his chest loosening, and he heaved a sigh of a relief. Just the shoulder. One shot, right below the collarbone. Nothing fatal. Could've been worse. So much worse.

He'd bitch at Lukas later. Not the right time now, and Lukas was as likely to whirl around and punch him than he was to talk to him.

How odd.

It was strange, to see Lukas covered in blood that didn't belong to someone else.

Magnus and Ludwig hauled Lukas down onto the couch, and Timo kept guard outside the door, just in case Lukas had been followed. Berwald, who probably should have been standing out with Timo, found himself rather fascinated with the happenings before him.

Drops of red dotted the wooden floor.

Watching Magnus gripping Lukas' arm in a vice and watching Ludwig poke at the hole in Lukas' shoulder was somehow exceedingly interesting. He couldn't say whether it was seeing Magnus and Ludwig working together for something so unpleasant, or whether it was realizing that maybe Lukas wasn't so invincible after all.

Maybe just getting a glimpse of what it looked like when their luck finally ran out.

A call of his name jolted him from his stillness.

"Berwald, get me a knife or something."

Ludwig was looking at him, expectantly, and it took him a second to react. He jumped a little and darted into the kitchen, opening drawers and searching for something useful. When he found a kitchen knife, a little dull but still functional, he brought it back.

Magnus took it, and doused it in alcohol before handing it to Ludwig.

Quickly, Magnus took a grip of Lukas' arm again, and when Ludwig and Lukas locked eyes, all Ludwig said was, "Please don't punch me."

Ludwig could see the irritability there, too.

"I'll try."

As an afterthought, Magnus took hold of Lukas' other arm, pinning them back.

With that, Ludwig suddenly dug the knife into the bullet hole, trying to dig the lead out, and Berwald was glad that Ludwig didn't speak Norwegian, because what Lukas called him then might have hurt his feelings otherwise. A minute of digging that felt far too long, gritted teeth and foul curses from Lukas, and then Ludwig finally managed to flick the bullet out.

No time to relax—Ludwig grabbed the alcohol and poured it straight into the wound, and even Berwald felt himself wincing a little when Lukas bit down to keep himself from screeching at Ludwig.

Were you supposed to douse an open wound like that? Oh, well. Ludwig had already done it.

Why couldn't they have ever come across a fleeing doctor?

And it might have been Magnus' firm grip, after all, that kept Lukas from punching Ludwig in the face, because he sure as hell was writhing and trying very hard to break free.

Berwald just stood there, and felt rather useless as Magnus held a squirming Lukas still and Ludwig did the best he could on the wound.

He looked down, at the bullet lying on the floor.

Horrifying, to imagine such a tiny thing caused such destruction.

If Ludwig ever got shot—

"I think that's as good as it's gettin'," Ludwig finally said, as he pressed the bandage as hard as he could against Lukas' shoulder, and Berwald could see the sweat on Lukas' forehead.

The crinkle of pain in his brow.

"Should you stitch it, you think?" Berwald asked, and Ludwig just pursed his lips.

"I don't know how. I'll probably make it worse. I think it'll be alright."

Magnus muttered, lowly, "You're such a lucky son of a bitch."

Lukas just smiled, a bit dazedly, and when Ludwig was done, he asked, "You're not gonna hit me, are you?"

A short silence, and then Lukas shook his head.

Magnus let go of his arms.

Lukas didn't punch Ludwig in the face, but he did lie a little; he jerked his left fist forward and dug it rather mercilessly into Ludwig's side, knocking the wind out of him for a second with an 'oomph'.

"I can't _wait _until you get shot," Lukas hissed, "'Cause I'm gonna have fun stabbin' you."

Ludwig, rubbing at his side and wincing a little, just smiled.

"Yeah, sure. You're all talk."

They left him there on the couch, took the bloody coat to the back, and Timo came in afterwards.

Berwald lifted his head, but Timo just said, "Clear."

A relief.

"Alright," Lukas finally said, a while later, and Berwald was pretty sure that he heard the smallest of tremors in his voice, "Somebody get me a drink."

Magnus tossed him a bottle, Lukas drank all night, and snow started falling soon after.

Five days later, Berwald finally gave Lukas the long lecture about going off on his own, and the whole time he felt a great sense of déjà vu, because he was pretty sure this was the sixth or seventh time he'd given this exact same speech.

Lukas just smiled, nodding his head even though Berwald's words likely floated out the other side, and before he knew it, two months had gone by and it was winter again.

Christmas was a little dreary, way out here in the middle of nowhere and without anyone other than themselves.

Magnus and Ludwig, usually so put together, had both looked pale and homesick as they sat huddled together on the loveseat, and that was the only time Berwald could recall that that fact hadn't bothered him.

At least not in the same way.

Bothered him that they looked so sad, yeah, but not that they were sitting together.

Timo and Lukas chattered about Christmases in their homeland, and Berwald just sat by himself and couldn't really even remember what the hell Christmas was.

A long time.

No doubt this was the first time Ludwig had been away from home for Christmas, and when he turned his eyes over and over again to the window, Berwald could only imagine that Ludwig was trying to see Germany all the way from here.

Depressing.

He caught Ludwig alone, later, and put a hand on his shoulder, but Ludwig's smile had only been half-hearted at best.

Magnus probably coulda gotten him to laugh, though.

He felt sick, sometimes.

Days passed.

New years came soon after.

Sleet battered the roof.

Lukas' shoulder had healed up nicely.

Ludwig was still sleeping in his bed at least twice a week.

Everything seemed to be going alright.

That night, celebrating a new year and hopes that the war would end, everyone drank too much.

Far too much.

Lukas passed out on the porch, Timo could barely walk, Magnus leaned back into the sofa and found the ceiling exceedingly interesting, and Ludwig could hardly fuckin' talk he was so drunk.

Berwald wasn't too far behind them.

Magnus wandered off a while later, Timo disappeared somewhere, Ludwig probably couldn't remember where the hell he was, and suddenly it had seemed like a good idea to Berwald to haul himself to his feet and walk around.

As he passed the sofa, Ludwig reached out, maybe to grab his shirt, but he missed, and Berwald was too uncoordinated to actually make a turn then and go back.

It was hard enough tryin' to figure out what room he was in, let alone pull off a circle.

He stumbled around, using the walls for support when he staggered, and when he rounded a corner, he found himself interrupting something intimate.

Very intimate.

Magnus and Timo, drunk as they were. Magnus was leaning down, murmuring away in Timo's ear, and Berwald had come in just in time to see Timo grab Magnus' belt and pull him backwards until they hit the wall.

Magnus tongue disappeared in Timo's throat soon after.

He froze where he stood, silent and still, as his shocked mind tried to comprehend the scene before him.

What he felt then was strange.

Discomfort, sure. Unease. Distaste, more than anything. Like he had eaten something that had left a very unpleasant aftertaste in the back of his throat.

But not jealousy. Not hate.

Irritation, mostly.

He furrowed his brow and felt the frown forming, and was irritated because it was pretty easy for his intoxicated mind to imagine Ludwig in Timo's place.

They'd been down each other's throats these past months (so to speak), so it wasn't much of a stretch to imagine that a drunk Magnus might just turn his affections to the next best thing when Timo was gone. If Timo hadn't been there in that moment when Magnus had stepped in, if Ludwig had been alone in the corner, it wasn't too hard to think that Magnus would have grabbed Ludwig instead.

His head was killing him all of a sudden.

Thinking too much.

He took a step backwards, meaning to retreat, but his clumsy feet betrayed him and he wound up bumping into the chair.

They looked up quickly, and Berwald was surprised at that because he had assumed it would have taken a good two minutes for Magnus to get all of his tongue back out of Timo's throat.

His restless feet were shuffling then.

The grimace must have still been on his face, because Timo was quick to give a mortified giggle and squirm out from under Magnus and make a break for the nearest bedroom as fast as his wobbly legs would allow.

Magnus meant to follow him, catching Berwald's eye as he went.

A long, scorching look.

Tipsy Magnus mistook Berwald's distaste for something else.

If ever Berwald had found Magnus mistrustful, Magnus found him to be in apparently equal standing.

Magnus spoke then, and what he said was nothing Berwald would have expected.

"Why do you still keep goin' after him, huh? I don't get you—you knew all along he didn't love ya, but ya still keep trying. Why can't you just leave him alone? He's not gonna fall in love with you, it's not gonna happen. Leave him alone. Timo never loved you."

On a normal day, his brain was slow enough to respond. Add on a few bottles of vodka, and he found himself standing there like an idiot, lips pursed and eyes squinted as Magnus berated him for no reason whatsoever.

Too dumb to speak up.

A year ago, this speech would have been warranted. But not anymore.

Magnus was confused. As irritable now as Berwald was.

Magnus had always been volatile. A drunk Magnus was a breath away from being completely irrational.

Insane.

"Leave him alone. Stop tryin'. Ha! For the good it would ever have done ya. The only reason anyone's puttin' up with ya at all is because we have to! Soon as this war ends, you can bet not a damn one of us will see ya again afterwards! Bein' around you is almost worse than runnin' into a fuckin' platoon. Can't _wait _to be rid of you. There's a reason you've always been alone. Always will be, the way you are."

The words hurt.

There had been a great misunderstanding between them, and Berwald found that he was just so damn _angry _that he couldn't even open his mouth and set the idiot straight.

He could have said, 'You can have Timo for all I care, you son of a bitch, just leave Ludwig alone,' but he didn't.

What he felt then was hard to explain, because he wasn't sure if it was hurt or wrath, or hate.

All three, likely.

He just turned his back then, and walked away. If it made Magnus uncomfortable, then let Magnus think that he was still after Timo.

Anything to make Magnus miserable.

It would bite him in the ass one day, no doubt.

At his back, Magnus spat, lowly, "Who could ever put up with _you_? I'll celebrate gettin' away from you more than I will the treaty being signed."

The fact that Magnus and Ludwig were so close made it sting all the more. If Magnus thought it, then who could say with certainty that Ludwig didn't, too? When they whispered to each other in their dialect, maybe this was what they said.

Because, nowadays, it was _always _Magnus and Ludwig.

Men of similar minds.

Magnus slammed the door behind him when he stomped into Timo's room, and Berwald somehow staggered to his own and threw himself down on the bed, palm pressed to his forehead.

Anger, throbbing in his veins.

Burning.

He didn't even have time to mull it over and calm down before Ludwig pushed open his door and leaned in the frame.

"Berwald?"

He just sat there, head rested in his hand, and did not respond to Ludwig's gentle voice.

It took him a second to gather the nerve to look up.

Ludwig was smiling at him blearily, and it was obvious that it had been a great struggle to make it this far.

Ludwig was drunk, that was obvious right off. Staggering around, he barely seemed able to see, and when he lurched forward and fell onto the bed, nearly taking it out, when he reached out and wrapped an arm around Berwald's shoulders, when he leaned in and pressed his nose into Berwald's neck, Berwald realized how out of it Ludwig was.

The smell of Ludwig would have been pleasing any other time.

Not so much now.

Ludwig was beyond drunk.

Blackout.

He'd never seen Ludwig this intoxicated.

Maybe that was for the best.

"I was looking for you. Where'd ya go?"

Berwald couldn't say, 'I was getting stomped by Magnus,' so he just stayed silent.

Ludwig didn't seem to mind much, and maybe somehow Ludwig knew everything, because he suddenly whispered, rather coyly despite the slur, "Magnus makin' ya mad, huh?"

The tone in which Ludwig said it made him think twice about everything that had been going on, and maybe if he hadn't been so knocked down by Magnus' words, he would have grabbed Ludwig's collar and taught him a rough lesson about the repercussions of intentionally trying to make him jealous.

Couldn't seem to get his arms working.

Ludwig only put up with him because he _had_ to.

Nowhere else to go.

Even Ludwig nuzzling the side of his neck couldn't get rid of that voice.

Ludwig's other arm came forward, completing a loop around his neck, and suddenly Ludwig was pressing up against his side, closing any distance between them. Warm breath in his ear, a nose shifting strands of his hair, lips running down the side of his neck.

Fingers gripping the fabric of his shirt.

Heat.

The scent of alcohol.

Ludwig shifted his angle, repositioned his weight, and somehow managed to push Berwald far enough back onto the bed to start crawling on top of him.

He couldn't even move. His throat had clenched up.

The mattress sank in warning at the weight put upon it. Ludwig didn't heed it, and soon Berwald found himself completely underneath him, Ludwig's arms on either side of him as he sought balance.

Warm.

Too warm.

A temporary situation. When the war ended—

Ludwig fell down on top of him, pushing him down with his full weight, face burrowing into his hair, and when Ludwig started whispering, purring out those 'r's that Berwald found himself so fascinated by, the heat was starting to become uncomfortable.

The weight above him, that would have been a dream come true just a little earlier, was suddenly stifling.

Couldn't breathe.

Hands ran down the front of his shirt, and then underneath.

Unbearable friction.

Ludwig was trying very hard to incite him, and God, if only he could understand that it was working alright, but that there was just something _nagging _him.

Heavy breathing in his ear.

His heart was pounding so hard he knew Ludwig could feel it. He could feel him smiling in his neck, and his hands started roaming farther down.

The whispering had turned rather husky, suddenly, and Berwald's non-fluent German couldn't pick up over half of what Ludwig was muttering, which meant that most of what he was saying was certainly nothing that would have ever come up in a civilized conversation.

The pit of his stomach tightened.

His hands flew up, and they would have grabbed Ludwig's waist if he hadn't caught himself at the last second and forced them back down to his sides.

Couldn't focus.

Agitation.

The fingers under his shirt raked down, suddenly, nails dragging into his skin, and took hold of his belt. Ludwig's legs fell on either side of him then, and he found himself quite efficiently straddled, and even though this scenario had crossed his mind once or twice before, it felt wrong.

Wrong.

And not because Ludwig was drunk.

He felt sick all of a sudden.

If it had been a night earlier, just one night earlier, when Ludwig crawled on top of him, he would have sat still. It wouldn't have been _right_, nah, it would have made him the worst man in the world, but he would have done it all the same, because he wasn't a good person. When Ludwig put all of his weight against him and tried very hard to meld them into one, he probably would have grabbed his waist and ground him down harder. When Ludwig lowered clumsy fingers and dragged them down beneath the beltline of his pants, he probably would have lied there and let Ludwig undo the buttons. When Ludwig sank his teeth into his neck, he probably would have reached up and grabbed his hair and yanked.

He would have let Ludwig do whatever he wanted, just one night earlier.

He couldn't now. Not now.

Magnus' words kept ringin' in his ears.

Ludwig was only doing this because he was drunk.

...probably woulda grabbed onto the first person he laid eyes on.

Ludwig might lie in the bed with him some nights, but the second the peace treaties were signed, Ludwig would pack up his things and leave.

Wouldn't even look back.

He was just a loneliness fix, until the world was set right again.

Teeth grazed his neck.

A soft moan of his name.

Uncoordinated fingers tried to unclasp his belt, before getting irritated and the running below instead.

He couldn't say when he had started holding his breath, but he felt himself grabbing Ludwig's arms and yanking them up out of his pants and back upright.

Ludwig slurred something unintelligible, and his smile held strong.

Berwald took Ludwig's wrists in his hands, pinning them still, and the bleary smile that Ludwig sent him somehow made his chest ache rather than burn.

Not fair.

Ludwig, misinterpreting his firm grip, squirmed on top of him and was apparently quite happy to think that Berwald was about to flip him over or force his hands lower, and, God, he could have fallen over and died for how awful he felt.

It didn't mean anything—never had.

Just circumstances.

So Berwald flipped Ludwig over, alright, sinking ever lower into the collapsing bed, and when Ludwig was underneath him, he kept his wrists in a firm grip, and tried to slide himself to the edge.

It took a minute for drunk Ludwig to figure out that Berwald wasn't..._doing _whatever Ludwig had intended him to be doing.

He slipped his legs over the edge, found his foothold, and let go of Ludwig's wrists.

Ludwig sat up, after a tipsy struggle, and Berwald was quick to shove him backwards back down onto the bed. Not hard enough to hurt him, but enough to keep him from giving chase, at least until Berwald could outmaneuver him.

When Ludwig was trying to sit up again, Berwald bolted for the door. Ludwig gripped the blankets for support, and Berwald heard him slur, as he fled for the hall, "Wait, where're ya goin'? Haven't even started yet—"

Ludwig was too drunk to even get up to follow him.

He left Ludwig behind, stalked down the hall, and found himself outside.

The lake rippled below with the sleet.

His head was on fire.

Upside down.

Nothing seemed right.

People did things when they were drunk that didn't mean anything. People said things without thinking that didn't mean anything. People put into stressed situations did things that they wouldn't have done otherwise, and it didn't mean anything.

And people _fucked _other people, even people they didn't really like much, and that didn't mean anything either.

Magnus and Ludwig, always talking.

He stayed outside all night, too afraid to trek back into the house even though Ludwig had no doubt passed out on his bed.

He was glad that Ludwig was so drunk, because otherwise Ludwig would have hated him.

He wouldn't remember this, and that was for the best.

Who knew? Maybe Magnus had been a blessing in disguise, because if Magnus hadn't said anything, then he would have let Ludwig do as he wanted, and when the morning came, when Ludwig woke up with a hangover, when Ludwig tried to figure out why he was so sore only to look over and see Berwald sleeping next to him, when Ludwig realized that Berwald had taken advantage of him in a vulnerable situation, then maybe the whole thing that he and Ludwig had built around each other would have crashed down.

He couldn't have handled that.

He would have gotten too attached, and it would have been devastating when Ludwig left for good.

Had to be this way.

Magnus was right.

Sometimes, in certain ways, Timo and Ludwig were so much alike. If Timo could never have loved him, then how could Ludwig?

He would always be alone.

Ludwig had come into his bedroom, and Berwald knew why; because Ludwig was lonely.

This war was the only thing keeping Ludwig by his side. When it ended, Ludwig would leave. Ludwig's interest wouldn't linger afterwards, when the world was open to him again. An entire world, a handsome young man in the prime of life—what would ever keep Ludwig by _his _side?

He was nobody.

Ludwig had a bright future, and he wasn't anywhere in it.

What was the point? Keeping his distance from Ludwig was better, so it wouldn't sting quite as much when he finally went off on his own path.

'41 was suddenly well on the way.

Not fair.

The way Magnus and Ludwig spoke to each other.


	15. Let There Be Country

**Chapter 15**

**Let There Be Country**

"He hasn't been speaking to me lately."

Months.

"How come?"

Silence.

"...I don't know. I can't figure out what I did."

Everything had turned upside down.

The red flag had backfired.

His own flag had gone from well up the mountain back down to base.

That was the only thing he could think of anyway, because trying to make Berwald jealous was the only thing he had done differently these past weeks.

Now Berwald wasn't speaking to him at all.

Maybe he had pushed too far. Too hard. Maybe he had been reckless. Maybe he had miscalculated. Maybe he had just been a great damn idiot, as he so often was. Maybe he had pressed the wrong button and incited Berwald's anger rather than his jealousy.

Berwald had gone beyond silence and was actively avoiding him.

Base? More like the flag had been blown away completely.

Kinda _hurt_.

Nothing was the same as it had been just a few months ago. None of the motions, none of the silent camaraderie, no more glances or brushes or company.

Ludwig had considered them to be...well.

_Them_.

Not 'them' anymore. Not 'us'. Not 'we'. Just him and just Berwald, but not together.

Separate.

He reached out. Berwald sidestepped.

He opened his mouth. Berwald slunk away before he could speak.

He stared. Berwald lowered his eyes.

Alone. Surrounded by men on all sides and still somehow so lonely.

Berwald wouldn't speak to him.

And so now he sat here with Timo, who watched him with chin in hand and a strange, leering smile upon his face, and had to suffer uttering those words and risking appearing pathetic in the process.

But Berwald wasn't talking to him, so sitting with Timo was all he could do. Didn't really have the heart to do much else, and being around Magnus had probably been the wrong path, anyway.

Timo couldn't really cheer him up this time, though.

Actually, for once, Timo's presence just seemed to make him feel worse.

"Silent treatment, huh?" was Timo's hardly concerned response. "Didn't think Berwald talked enough as it was to give anyone the silent treatment. Ha. That's a new one. You look pretty upset by it." A quick leer. "Any particular reason?"

Ludwig sent Timo a rather testy look, and turned pointedly away.

What did _he _know about Berwald, anyway?

Not just Timo. All of them.

None of them had ever really treated Berwald as anything more than just 'that guy I have to put up with until the war ends'. What did they know? If they had ever actually bothered, they might have discovered that Berwald had more than a little to say.

Just not to him anymore.

On second thought, maybe it wasn't even worth it to get to know Berwald. Too much effort for too little.

It wasn't _his_ fault. Berwald was to blame. He hadn't done anything wrong.

Idiot.

He had been so irritable lately.

Bitterness in the back of his throat.

If the big oaf had a problem with him, anyway, all he had to do was open his fuckin' mouth and spill it.

Give him a hint, at least.

If Berwald thought that he had been wronged in some way, then let him say it, because Ludwig wasn't going to go to him and say, 'I'm sorry', and grovel to get things back to the way they had been before.

He hadn't done anything wrong. He wouldn't go crawling.

Pride. Too much pride.

Timo saw his waning patience and his annoyance, and reached out to clap him on the shoulder, fingers and grip firm.

"Hey," he said, amicably, "Sorry! I didn't mean to piss ya off! I didn't mean it, I was just messin' with ya."

Ludwig gave a gruff mumble as an answer, and kept his face turned away.

After a while, Timo dropped his hand and wandered off.

He couldn't say that he was really angry with Timo, not with Timo, but he took it out on him all the same. Not just that moment, either. The next day, Timo tried to offer friendly words, and Ludwig brushed them off with nods and 'hm's. When Timo pressed, trying to get a response, Ludwig had given him one, alright.

'Leave me alone.'

Timo hadn't shown any outright offense, but he sure hadn't said anything to Ludwig for the rest of the day.

Lukas saw his foul mood, as Ludwig had seen Lukas', and avoided him accordingly when the time was right.

Magnus didn't even seem to notice, the dummy, and took Ludwig's absence and silence as no problem, not when Timo was around to slobber over.

Doors had a way of pissing him off, though, because every time Berwald slunk by him he seemed to have a way of finding one to kick.

Lukas tried to avoid touching him too much at night, just to make sure he didn't set Ludwig off.

The days felt long.

The rifle was heavy.

He didn't go into Berwald's room anymore.

When he went out on a job, the Finns around him got him so riled up that every so often he shot his gun off into the bark of a tree nearest where they stood. They didn't bother him too much anymore, perhaps needless to say.

He took it out on all of them, he took it out on everything, and the whole while, Berwald just kept his eyes on the floor.

His swiftly shifting moods would get him into trouble one day.

All the same, he gave in to them.

Every passing day, he felt himself growing angrier.

Irritation was starting to melt into irrationality.

He wouldn't say 'sorry'.

It was worse in a way to feel as if Berwald were miles away like Gilbert was when Berwald was actually right beside of him.

He wasn't the one in the wrong.

Stupid. Berwald was so stupid. All he had to do was talk.

Was that so hard?

* * *

><p>Agitation.<p>

Ludwig hadn't taken too well to his silence and shiftiness. Sometimes, Berwald looked up and realized that Ludwig looked pretty damn _mad_. An angry Ludwig was a rather frightening one, but that had been obvious from day one.

Shoulda known better than to antagonize him.

Didn't see what his problem was, though. By all rights, Berwald assumed his absence would have allowed Ludwig to spend more time with Magnus. They had been so stuck on each other before that Berwald had almost worried his distance would allow them to finally merge into one obnoxious being, as they no doubt had always wanted.

Hardly.

That wasn't the case, and Berwald knew now it hadn't ever been. Maybe on some level, he always had known. Still, though, in his more childish moments that was what his mind liked to spit out.

Whether or not Ludwig and Magnus were around each other didn't seem to matter as much to him anymore as much as wondering how alike in minds they were.

If Ludwig would feed off of Magnus' hatred of Berwald now that Berwald had taken to avoiding Ludwig.

For all it mattered.

Ludwig didn't even bother with Magnus anymore.

He didn't bother with _anyone_, come to think, and spent most of his time lurking in corners and trying to murder random objects with his eyes.

Always foul.

Always brooding.

Sometimes, in the wrong mood, Ludwig was scary.

Scarier still was the thought that Ludwig wouldn't ever speak to him again.

The war would end one day, and Ludwig would move on. Was this how they were doomed to spend the last of their time together, avoiding gazes and glaring at walls?

Ludwig didn't snatch his glasses anymore. For the best, as it was, because the way things were now between them Ludwig might have thrown the glasses right on the floor and then stomped them.

He hadn't known it would feel this damn bad.

Still, the world around them carried on.

"We should think about movin' around," Timo said one day, as spring began to burst back into summer.

Berwald hadn't even batted an eye.

Move?

Didn't feel like it.

"Where do you wanna go?" Magnus asked, almost warily. "Not...not wantin' to try and get into the Soviet Union, are ya?"

Ludwig sat off silently near the door, and watched the trees swaying outside.

Somehow, Magnus' fear didn't seem outlandish in the least. Sounded kinda like something Timo might actually have tried if he got bold enough.

No time for Timo to answer.

Lukas butted in.

"I'd rather go down to Helsinki before we go anywhere," Lukas said, rather dreamily, and it was enough to drag attention away from relocation for a while.

Humoring Lukas, Berwald asked, "Why's that?"

It hardly surprised him when Lukas responded, "I'd like to go see _Intermezzo _while it's back in the theatre. Ingrid Bergman is so lovely, don't you think, especially when she's playing a Norwegian!"

Magnus gave a short, coarse laugh, and Berwald could already see the dour look on Ludwig's face.

"I think I'll pass on that," Ludwig grumbled, in a moment of foulness.

"What?" Timo crooned, teasingly, "You don't like going to see the movies? Don't worry, we won't embarrass you in there." In a sly voice, he added, "You and Berwald can go sit off in the back and be quiet, and we'll cause a ruckus up front. How's that?"

Ouch.

He might have appreciated that one before, but now it was more than unpleasant.

Ludwig would have enjoyed the back of the theatre, alright, just so that he would have enough privacy to punch Berwald in the face without being escorted outside.

Ludwig furrowed his brow, turned narrowed eyes to the wall, and just glowered away.

Berwald sent Timo an irritated glare, but Lukas interrupted with a completely random, "She's so lovely, I can't believe she's not Norwegian in the first place!"

Offhandedly, Berwald said, "Swedes are pretty, too."

A simple sentence.

Sure did piss Ludwig off, though.

"Yeah, well," Ludwig added, a bit snappily, "She's half German, remember? Where do you think she got all the good looks from?"

As the words had tumbled from his lips, the side of Ludwig's nose had crinkled upward.

An angry dog, ready to bite.

Berwald opened his mouth, thought better of it, and looked away.

He'd rather have the growl than the teeth.

Timo shifted his weight, awkwardly, and Magnus seemed happy that he had not engaged in any of that conversation.

Pathetic.

It had gotten to the point where they were fighting over the heritage of a woman neither of them would ever meet.

Nowadays, everything made Ludwig angry.

Steps creaking at night, a storm that lasted too long, not finding what he wanted in the kitchen, a wrong look, a wrong word, a wrong motion.

Ludwig had become as volatile as the mines outside.

When Ludwig sat on the couch and drank now, every time that Berwald glanced his way Ludwig would make a show of slamming his glass down onto the table, making the point very clear :

'Don't even look at me.'

His fault.

He had spent these past months trying to make Ludwig stay away from him, but he hadn't realized it would hurt so much once he actually succeeded.

Ludwig had passed the point of avoiding him.

Ludwig hated him.

He wanted to try to explain that he hadn't meant it like that, that he ignored Ludwig now because Ludwig was the only thing out here in this miserable place that he cared about, even if that didn't make much sense.

Just couldn't think of how to say it.

Ludwig would have laughed at him.

All these months...

Sometimes, Berwald just felt like he'd been shot.

* * *

><p>Summer.<p>

A warm day in June.

They hadn't moved yet.

Berwald couldn't even drag his miserable eyes up from the floor, let alone make a tactical decision regarding their whereabouts. If Timo wanted to go farther south or farther east, Berwald found himself oblivious.

Ludwig left the kitchen whenever he walked in.

The sound of the chair scraping the floor; that was his biggest worry right now.

At least until _that _day.

It started as briskly and abruptly as anyone could have imagined such a thing would.

Taking them off guard.

Timo came bursting in through the door, so hard and fast that Ludwig and Lukas actually reached out for their guns in the corner, and when he skidded to a halt before them, the look on his face was nothing Berwald could ever have placed.

Wide eyes and a wider smile, breathless and red.

Sunrise, in human form.

"Didn't ya hear?" he finally said, in a voice that was as breathless as his face. "Weren't you listenin'?"

Berwald shared a quick look with Magnus, who asked, tentatively, "Hear what?"

Timo's smile could very well have broken his face.

Berwald had never seen him like that.

"Germans just invaded the Soviet Union."

A short, unbearable silence.

Magnus' mouth was open, but nothing was coming out.

Lukas and Ludwig shared a quick look, and Ludwig shook his head a little, as if he had misheard.

What?

No time to think; Timo had skidded into the kitchen, grabbed the radio off the counter, and threw himself down at the table with it, flipping knobs until the static tuned in.

Garbled words.

They might have been clear, but Berwald was certain later on that he hadn't heard any of 'em.

All he could see and hear was Timo, sitting the radio on the table and still smiling.

Why was he smiling?

The Germans and Reds had been friends, that was the whole point, that was why they had been fighting the Reds this past year, for Ludwig's sake, because killing Germans was too hard when one of your own men was German, so it was easier to go after the Reds when they had the same goal.

The same side.

Not anymore.

Timo had always had a soft spot for the Germans—Ludwig standing here now was living proof—but a soft spot had suddenly turned into outright admiration, and it was more than a little uncomfortable.

"Oh!" Timo suddenly breathed, as he hung over that radio and touched it with his palm, "I knew it would fuckin' happen, I knew it! You saw it comin', didn't you? I've been waiting for this ever since it all started! Germans marchin' on the Soviet Union. Best fuckin' army in the world! Finland's gonna catch up soon, you'll see!" He looked over his shoulder, at his silent companions, and said, "A bunch of guys already went down and listed themselves up in the SS! They're sending Jägers to train the others. I can't wait for this war to start up again."

Silence.

Timo turned back to the radio, that awed smile still on his face, and it was so _quiet_.

The Germans marching on the Soviet Union was salvation to Timo.

The fall of the Soviet Union would suddenly be oblivion for Lukas and Magnus.

Berwald opened his mouth, fell silent, and turned his eyes to the rifles in the corners.

Oh, Christ—how many Reds had he killed already?

Reds.

They had been _Reds _when they had been aligned with Germany.

And suddenly—

Timo straightened up, a strange light in his eye, and maybe everything had been somewhat tense lately, or maybe everyone was just tired, or maybe all of them together had just become a tinderbox waiting for a spark, but when he opened his mouth and spoke, what he said lit up the room like an explosion.

"I'm going to help fight the Soviets!"

Because it wasn't, 'I'm going to go out on my own'.

It was, 'I'm going to join up with the Germans.'

Suddenly, the Reds they had been gunning down for over a year now had become the lesser of two evils.

Honestly, Berwald didn't know how to feel about that.

Finland meant everything to Timo, whether it was Axis or Allied or neutral. Timo would have defended Finland as fiercely if it had been Finland that had marched on the Soviet Union instead of the other way around.

Creaking floorboards, as everyone shifted their weight.

Timo, as expected, knew quite well what _he_ was feeling, and made it known.

"Well!" he exclaimed, as they all stood in dumb silence, "Let's head out, huh? We can join up with real soldiers now! They take volunteers, we can go down and get training and go out on the front lines! Can you imagine? Not sittin' around on our asses anymore, waiting to see what happens if we go here or we go there. Let's go, huh? We'll really be soldiers."

Every time the word 'soldier' left Timo's lips, he sent a quick, admiring glance at Ludwig, who stood as still as the rest, as if just by looking at Ludwig Timo would somehow be able to emulate him.

Ludwig was a soldier, though. They weren't.

Never had been.

And Berwald, truly, hadn't ever wanted to be.

The feeling wasn't his alone; Lukas and Magnus looked liked they'd been thrown into a freezing lake.

All Berwald could think to do then was open his mouth and utter, "But we're not soldiers. That...wasn't what we got together t'do."

Timo's breathless face was crossed by a swift shadow, but he quickly forced it away to turn hopeful eyes to Lukas and Magnus.

Lukas just shook his head, arms suddenly crossed stiffly over his chest. Berwald could see then that Lukas had gone over to Magnus' side, leaving a gap between himself and Ludwig, perhaps subconsciously.

Magnus, who had always been Timo's biggest admirer, scoffed aloud, and crinkled his nose.

Quiet.

The shadow came back.

Electricity.

Berwald saw them all in that instant as men who had run into each other several minutes before and had already decided they didn't like each other much.

The way everyone was standing.

In that odd silence, so heavy, Timo turned then to Ludwig, held out his arms beseechingly, and said, simply, "Ludwig!"

Ludwig.

And it felt like someone had kicked Berwald in the chest all over again when Ludwig stalked forward without hesitation, swung his fist around, and he and Timo clapped hold of each other's hands in a show of solidarity, seemingly in complete agreement.

Ludwig. German. Axis, whether he wanted to be or not. Ludwig had run, but if it came down to the wire his loyalty would be towards his motherland. Ludwig hated his government, but loved his soldiers. Ludwig wouldn't fight Germans.

Wouldn't turn on 'em.

But the Reds were friends now. The Finns had joined the Germans.

Wait! Couldn't be right.

Couldn't be.

Berwald ran a hand over the bridge of his nose, gawking at Timo's back, still stuck in the shock of disbelief.

Timo and Ludwig's hands were still clasped.

What could he say? What was he supposed to do?

What did they expect him to do?

Lukas and Magnus kept watching him. Waiting. And now! Sure, _now_ they wanted him to take over, because this was the dirty work of being a leader, wasn't it, trying to keep men together who were suddenly on different sides. This was when they remembered him, when they didn't want to sully their hands.

He faltered under their expectations.

Couldn't seem to find his voice.

How could he suddenly turn to Timo and say, 'Your country is on the wrong side now, we can't fight for it anymore'?

How could he look at Ludwig and say, 'We have to kill Germans now, because we're on the side of the Reds'?

All those men they had already killed, all of them, were allies now.

Friends.

Each one dead was a man now that might have one day changed the course of the entire war towards the Allies.

The little world they had built up around themselves crumbled.

Crumbled, because, in the end, everyone only extended their hand for someone who shared their efforts.

Lukas and Magnus had helped in Finland because the Soviets had been aligned with the Germans, and the Germans were who they wanted to see bleed when everything was said and done.

Berwald had done the same.

Timo had only sabotaged that German train then because Berwald had asked him to, and Timo hadn't wanted to watch because even when the Germans and Soviets were allied Timo could still look back on it and feel that the Germans were friends. He had said so himself, hadn't he? 'I knew it!'

Everyone looked out for themselves.

Lukas and Magnus no longer shared Timo's goal.

Lukas put Berwald in the spotlight suddenly by saying, while still looking at Timo, "You were right. We should think about moving. Shouldn't we, Berwald?"

Everyone was looking at him then.

They stood in a horrible, thick silence, Magnus and Lukas on one side and Timo and Ludwig on the other, and for once, Berwald knew what it felt like to be caught in the center of an argument.

Ludwig and Timo wanted to fight the Russians.

Lukas and Magnus wanted to fight the Germans.

What could he do?

Reaching up and resting a palm against his forehead, he closed his eyes and bowed his head, and took a great breath to gather his thoughts. Leader. That was what he had called himself. Now he had to lead, and it was a frightening notion, because no matter what he decided, someone would be disappointed in him.

Someone would lose faith in him.

Someone would hate him.

Truthfully, he thought it better to fight against the Germans, and not the Russians, who had aligned with the Allies, although not for righteous reasons. Fight the Germans, who had gotten out of control, easy enough to think it, but, God...

He could deal with Magnus and Lukas never speaking to him again. He could deal with Timo's hard feelings.

But not Ludwig.

Not Ludwig.

Ludwig already thought that Berwald had turned against him. To go farther now would have Ludwig screaming ulterior motive.

Couldn't make anyone happy.

Well, then.

Finally, he found his voice.

"If no one can agree," he began, slowly and deliberately, "then we're not doing anything for now. We're not movin'. We're not joining up with anyone. And we're not goin' out at all until we figure something out."

Having these four angry men try to sit down and talk peacefully was folly, but he tried it anyway.

It worked about as well as he could have expected.

Magnus straightened up, a look of outrage upon his face. Timo looked on the verge of stomping his foot and letting his temper loose. Ludwig and Lukas just stood there, silent and foul.

Feeling his heart racing and a horrible rush of anxiety, Berwald straightened his shoulders and lifted his chin, and made sure that the matter was considered settled.

"No one goes anywhere. We stay together."

Magnus rebelled first, as usual, and sent him a quick, spiteful, "Easy for you to say! You got a country to go back to, don't'cha?"

Timo was quick to follow. "That's not for _you_ to decide! After what the Soviets did to _my_ hometown—"

Lukas retorted, "The Germans are doing the same to Norway!"

Ludwig bristled. "As if the Soviets are really going to come runnin' to the rescue!"

And then everyone was arguing again.

A horrible wave of defeat.

Some leader _he_ was.

Magnus and Timo were screaming at each other. Screaming. He had never heard Timo scream, not like that. Close to each other's faces, Timo waving his hand in Magnus' face, and Magnus was leaning forward, trying to be louder and more aggressive and yet somehow looking so _hurt_.

Hurt that Timo was not on his side.

Lukas and Ludwig were far apart and yet sniping at each other, and that was a first too, because Lukas and Ludwig had always gotten along so well. It had been Lukas who had tried so hard to befriend Ludwig, and yet now it was Lukas who was shaking his head fervently, shooting down every attempt that Ludwig made, and in retaliation Ludwig just raised his voice and started shouting, aggressively and maybe anxiously.

Apprehensive and defensive because Lukas was turning against him.

Everyone was fighting.

What could he do?

Ludwig stepped forward, brow low and eyes angry, and Lukas pursed his lips, and then turned his back.

Lukas turned his back on Ludwig.

Magnus came too close or screamed too loud or hit too far below the belt, and Timo pulled back his hand and slapped Magnus across the face.

Timo slapped Magnus.

What was happening to them? Friends turned into enemies, and he, the _leader_, just stood there, watching them disintegrate because he was too afraid of earning someone's disdain.

Someone said something that Berwald didn't even register, and Timo had suddenly rounded on Magnus and looked at them all in turn, shouting, "So they can do what they want now, huh? Just 'cause they switched sides? They can just have Finland now if they want to? They're good guys now, or something?"

Magnus opened his mouth to retort, and fell short under Timo's verbal trap.

They all knew better than to answer that one.

Didn't need to, in a way, because essentially maybe that was exactly what they were saying.

The only thing Berwald could do was watch them, because he felt too shitty to try and pull out pitiful excuses and rationalizations.

In some way, Timo was right.

War was never fair, though. Timo learned that now the hard way.

"So you're gonna leave now? You'll all fight against me, huh? So! See how much I care, then!"

Berwald wanted to say, 'It's not like that.'

It was, though.

And then, oh, _fuck_, Timo started cryin', out of frustration and desperation and because Timo just loved Finland _that_ much, because the thought of his country suddenly meaning less than others hurt, because he hated the Reds so much that crying was the only thing he could even think to do.

It was around then that Berwald suddenly wished he could just go home.

He wanted out, for the first time since he'd started.

Ludwig stood there beside Timo, fists clenched at his sides and face red, lips pursed so that he wouldn't lash out, and it was Lukas who came forward then and started up the ruckus.

"Any friend of the Germans is no friend of mine."

Ludwig stalked in front of Timo, hell etched on his face, but before he could open his mouth Berwald felt his own hell break loose.

He couldn't stand it anymore.

His patience had broken.

He remembered punching the wall, if more because of the pain of it than the actual motion, and he remembered stomping his foot and finding his voice.

"We're not doin' _anything_! Not a goddamn _thing_! If all yer gonna do is stand there and fight with each other then what's the point? Let's just pack up and go back home _now_! You all can go join the armies if ya want, and maybe you'll get to shoot at each other one day! If we're just a buncha kinda, then let's just go home! None of ya even know what you want anymore! Won't even talk to each other! If you wanna go off on your own, that's fine. Go! I won't stop ya! Go on!"

That was probably the most he'd spoken in months.

There was a hole in the wall.

For a merciful second, they all fell still, even restless Timo and Magnus, who finally broke each other's blazing gazes and averted their eyes to other places.

Magnus' cheek was red.

Lukas stared off into space, and Ludwig ducked his head and seemed to find the floor offensive.

Berwald gave one last effort.

"No one wins. Nobody's gonna be happy after. So what's the point?"

Point. There was no point in any of this.

No point in war.

No point for any of them.

Lukas and Magnus wouldn't find their countries to be the same when they returned. Timo's was shredded. Ludwig's was gone.

He could understand Ludwig's absolute refusal to fight against his countrymen. He could. And maybe he could understand why Timo wanted so badly to take some shots at the Russians while they were down, but did his desire for revenge burn so badly that he was willing to neatly ignore the encroaching Axis to do so?

To choose one evil over another?

Did Timo want to see Russia bleed so badly that he was perfectly alright with a German victory?

He could understand Ludwig.

Timo squinted his eyes and crinkled his nose, brushed away the wetness around his eyes, huffed in a few wavering breaths, and stood himself up straight.

Firm.

Unbending.

"I don't give a shit whose side they're on now," Timo spat, "They're still in my fuckin' country, and I'm gonna keep killin' them, Allied or Axis or whatever they wanna call themselves. You all can do what you want, but I won't fight any Germans, not as long as they're fightin' the Russians. You do what you want. Finland's fighting, and so am I."

Magnus' fists had loosened a little at his sides, and no doubt those words hurt.

Berwald had sworn, for a second there, that Lukas' hand had twitched down towards his belt, as if searching for his gun.

Deteriorating.

The ground was sinking beneath them.

Those words stung Magnus and Lukas, so it was uncomfortable that those same words somehow made Berwald feel more in tune with Timo as he had spoken them.

Timo and Ludwig were the same. Not fair to back one person for loving their country and doubting another for doing the same.

Timo and Ludwig's love for their countries didn't change just because sides did.

What a terrible situation. Not everyone could get out of there with their feelings and pride intact.

Didn't even take that long!

Deftly ignoring every single word that Berwald had uttered, Magnus opened his mouth, started screaming, and Ludwig screamed, too.

Timo and Lukas were going at it with each other then, because apparently one hadn't been enough for either of them.

As if Berwald wasn't there at all.

A break in the ruckus, a breather of sorts for tired throats, led to the worst thing that had been said all day.

A short silence that led to suffocation.

Lukas scoffed, and what he said then, with a crinkled nose, was meant to wound.

"Fuckin' Nazis."

And did it ever.

Ludwig went from still to fury in about three seconds.

There was a long silence, and then Ludwig took a stalking step forward, and Berwald was pretty sure that Ludwig would have punched someone, anyone, if Timo hadn't reached out, twisted in fist in Ludwig's shirt, and hauled him backwards mid-step.

Ludwig looked like he was ready to go back to the old days and show them that he could still take all of them out if he had half a mind to, but Timo's grip was an anchor of sorts, and finally he relented, eyes still firmly upon Lukas, taking a step backwards.

Conceding, if only by not knocking them out.

It was there then. Berwald's greatest fear :

Timo and Ludwig standing side by side, scoffing to each other, and then turning on their heels to storm out.

The two he had cared about the most.

And it happened pretty much just like that. Ludwig lifted up his chin, let out a gruff huff of air, and sent Magnus the foulest look Berwald had ever seen cross Ludwig's face.

Lukas didn't even get a glance; maybe Ludwig didn't possess a look terrifying enough for how he felt.

Timo kept that grip on Ludwig, and they quickly turned their backs on those who had once been friends. They slammed the door so hard behind them that the wood in the corner splintered.

They stayed in that bedroom for hours, and only came out when they felt like fighting some more.

And yet, even now, even though Ludwig had been angry at _all _of them, Berwald still found himself glancing towards Magnus and thinking, 'No more Hamlet and Horatio.'

He would have laughed, maybe, if he hadn't felt so sick.

No more Magnus and Ludwig. Magnus had crossed Ludwig more than he had in that spat.

All things considered, Berwald should very well have found himself in best standing, right after Timo.

Lukas may as well have signed his death warrant as far as Ludwig was concerned.

For the rest of that day, Lukas and Magnus refused to speak German, as if trying very hard to let Ludwig and Timo know exactly who their aggression was towards.

Ludwig just held his chin up high and pretended that they weren't there at all. Timo spoke loudly, in German, just to irritate them.

Berwald just sat on the fuckin' porch and wished he could punch every single one of them until they stopped arguing.

Inside, every so often, they started screaming at each other again.

He saw Magnus stalk out later, when the night was well on, and his black eye was fairly obvious.

Whether it had been Timo or Ludwig that had given it to him, however, was less obvious. Both of 'em probably could have made a living as boxers.

Ludwig came out a while later, too, and fell still there, as if surprised to see Berwald at all.

A deep, throaty sound of distaste.

His heart hammered so hard he felt sick. He couldn't handle Ludwig hating him.

Ludwig meant more than any of this going on around him.

If Ludwig had said, 'Let's go back to Sweden,' he probably would have gone. As long as Ludwig went.

Hardly better than a dream now.

Ludwig, still aggressive and agitated, stomped out, turned to look down at him, and finally barked, "Well! See you ran out without gettin' your hands dirty in any of it!"

He didn't acknowledge the furious Ludwig, and stared out at the lake.

Ignoring Ludwig just seemed to make him angrier.

"You're not talkin' to me either, huh? So! Who cares! You haven't been talkin' to me this whole time now!" Fuming, Ludwig swirled around and kicked a wooden beam in a fit, and snarled, "Ah! Who needs ya? If you don't wanna talk to me, that's fine, but I sure as hell wish you'd tell me why. What did I do, huh? Why won't you talk to me? What did I do to piss you off, huh?"

That wasn't what he had wanted.

None of this was.

He stayed silent.

Berwald noticed, then, that Ludwig kept on rubbing his hand when he wasn't thinking about it.

Magnus' black eye was solved.

Ludwig would probably try to give him one in a minute.

Ludwig stomped his foot, acting now like the teenager he really was, and spat, "Can't you talk? Huh? Won't you say something? I'm tired of you just starin' at me! I can't read your mind, you know! If you wanna say something, say it, because you're making me crazy! I can't figure you out! _Say _something!"

He _tried_, he really did. Always had.

But what was there to say now? No answer he had would satisfy Ludwig.

So, in the end, all he muttered when he opened his mouth was, "Something."

If Ludwig turned and kicked him in the face for being a smartass, he probably deserved it.

Somehow, someway, that stupid response seemed to diffuse some of Ludwig's fury.

It would have acerbated his own.

Ludwig, even now, even cast aside and so angry, still couldn't seem to cause intentional harm. In that little rant, Ludwig could have tossed out so many things that were meant to wound.

He hadn't.

Ludwig's kindness would get him into trouble one day.

He stopped pitching his fit then, and threw himself down onto the steps next to Berwald.

The gap between them was painfully obvious.

Ludwig wouldn't have left a millimeter of space between them before.

An uncomfortable silence, and then Ludwig finally grumbled, mostly to himself, "I don't even know whose side I should be on. It shouldn't'a happened this way."

He didn't know why he said what he said then.

He was agitated, too.

"Don't wanna fight anymore? Then go home. This isn't for kids."

Wrong thing to say, apparently, as agitated as Ludwig already was.

Ludwig twisted at the waist, pulled back his fist as best he could for the short distance, and finally punched Berwald in the nose as he had no doubt wanted to these past few months.

A sharp pain, and the rim of his glasses dug into his skin.

Ludwig's kindness, alright.

His own fist wrenched up automatically to punch back, but he forced it still and put his hand over his nose instead, as blood started dripping down.

Couldn't hit Ludwig—he had earned that one.

Anyway, as soon as Ludwig realized what he had done, his face fell a little, as if he hadn't really meant to.

Hadn't looked so regretful after punching Magnus.

Instead of standing and stomping off, Ludwig just sat there on the step, staring over at Berwald with a strange look, and then he spat a curse and ran his left hand over his knuckles.

Berwald knew his words had struck a nerve; Ludwig _couldn't _go home. Maybe not ever again.

Even far away from home, country still commanded the love of men. Asking Ludwig to turn against it, no matter what state it was in, might have been too much. He should have been more considerate, perhaps, but Ludwig's country wasn't the only one in the world.

He didn't speak again, holding his aching nose in his hand and staring off at the lake.

Ludwig looked lost.

Probably should have tried to bullshit some comfort, but he wasn't any good at that.

Still, Ludwig kept glancing over at him, as if waiting for Berwald to actually try.

...nah.

When his moping and silence finally got old, however, Ludwig was quick to let him know.

Ludwig turned to him out of the blue, face stern, and said, "Knock it off, won't you? You're not even the one that should be upset. What the hell do _you _care, who fights who? You're a real bastard. Sometimes I can't _stand _you."

He was taken aback by Ludwig's harsh look and harsher voice, and knew that his face had probably paled a bit.

Ludwig being mad at him, Ludwig detesting him, Ludwig not trusting him, was as terrifying as the prospect of the sun going out one day and never coming on again.

The war was speeding up, and it would probably be over soon. Ludwig would leave.

Not much time left together.

All the same, until then, he coulda died if Ludwig hated him. If Ludwig left feeling nothing but acrimony towards him. If Ludwig would have regretted ever looking at him in the first place.

Thinking it had been bad enough, but hearing Ludwig say it was close to devastating.

He felt his hands clenching together, swallowing in an effort to keep face, and he turned his eyes back out to the woods, as the rain pounded away.

Terror.

He felt like he sat there forever, breathing too hard through his sore nose, relying on the dark for composure, and, in all honesty, some pitiful part of him felt a little like crying.

He didn't.

In the distance, the lights on the lake rippled and danced with the drops of rain.

A sudden, low sigh beside of him, and a gruff scoff.

"Hell. I didn't mean to say it like that."

Before he could answer, before his trotting heart could give him the adrenaline needed to look over, there was a warmth on his shoulder.

Ludwig had slumped over, and rested his head there.

Oh—he wanted, more than anything, to reach up and pull him in closer, but he choked.

Scared.

He just sat there, and now maybe it was Ludwig who was scared, at his lack of response.

A whisper.

"Can we just start over?"

Starting over—that was the only way to do things, because so much had been said and done these past months that there wasn't really any other way to get rid of it except to start over.

He never did gather the courage to lift his arm and throw it around Ludwig's shoulder, but he did finally drop his head down, letting his jaw rest on Ludwig's forehead.

That was good enough.

Ludwig exhaled, and Berwald had no doubt that he was smiling, if only a little.

Starting over.

It seemed that he and Ludwig got on better after they punched each other for a while.

Wouldn't complain too much.

Ludwig pulled back a while later, and sent Berwald one of those old smiles as he held out a hand.

"I'm Ludwig," he said, quite seriously, and Berwald almost smiled as he took it.

Almost.

"Berwald."

The handshake between them was a little odd, because this was nothing close to how they had actually met. All the same, it felt alright. Better than Ludwig head-butting him, anyway.

Ludwig's smile widened as he added, "What's a handsome guy like you doin' in a shitty place like this?"

He couldn't help it; he laughed.

Ludwig's voice was weary when he spoke again.

"I really can't stand you, you know? I meant that. Sometimes, I just can't stand you. You're a weird bastard."

Was he smiling? He was pretty sure he was.

"Look who's talkin', you lousy son of a bitch."

Ludwig reached out, straightened up Berwald's glasses, and pressed gentle fingers into his nose.

"I'm sorry."

Berwald winced a little, but shrugged a shoulder all the same.

"You've hit me harder than that. Don't think yer sorry anyway, ya bastard."

The hand left his nose and fell to the back of his neck, and Ludwig lifted a prim chin as he said, "Well. You're right. I'm not. I'm not sorry at all."

Ludwig leaned over, and put his head back down on Berwald's shoulder as they snipped back and forth.

Oh, _God_.

Heaven.

Starting over was pretty easy. They didn't fight anymore. They couldn't—they were brothers. No matter what sides they took.

Months of ill-will, forgotten.

The pain in his nose didn't bother him much anymore.

They sat out and listened to the rain, and when his head dropped, nodding off with sleep, Ludwig reached up and placed his hand on the back of his neck.

Sleep wore off quickly, that was for sure.

Fingers, running between the start of his hairline and the collar of his shirt. Slow, gentle circles, forcing an involuntary shiver.

Why wasn't Ludwig scared?

He couldn't even get his hands to work.

He looked over at Ludwig, and asked, "Aren't you worried about what'll happen?"

If one of them got shot. What happened when the war ended.

But Ludwig just stared over at him, a placid smile shadowing his face, and shook his head.

Nothing scared Ludwig.

They sat for hours, and that night, for the first time in so long, Ludwig crept into his bed.

And that was the first night that, in the midst of restless sleep, Ludwig rolled over on top of his chest, grabbed his face in warm hands, and kissed him first upon the nose. A hesitation that felt like years, heavy breathing and warmth, and then Ludwig lowered down and kissed his lips.

Ludwig wasn't drunk—he had kissed him because he had _wanted _to.

It was a lot easier to sleep afterwards, when he finally got his hands moving and grabbed Ludwig by the back of the neck to keep him there.

The feel of warm skin beneath his fingers.

If Ludwig would only love him until the end of the war, then so be it. He could live with that.

They said, 'take what you can get.'

He did.

He liked starting over.


	16. That Lucky Old Sun

**A/N **: Honestly, I'm surprised you guys are even still around waiting. When I stop and think about how long it takes me to update, I realize that I'm actually a terrible person. But I gave you a long chapter to make up for it! :D Kind of. (and, as always, I have to apologize in advance for being the world's worst smut writer... (sigh)) Give me some time to proofread, too, yo.

This is the last fluff chapter for a little while, so enjoy it while it lasts. Next chapter we get more teenage angst drama, because nobody is ever mature about shit in this fuckin' story. Goddammit.

(_psst_, this chapter has one of my favorite scenes in the _whole_ story (actually, in ANY story), and I think you're going to be able to guess what it is. (XD What can I say? I'm really just a sappy romantic at heart. Deep down, in fact, I want everything I write to be happy. ...just doesn't happen a lot. :p)

* * *

><p><strong>Chapter 16<strong>

**That Lucky Old Sun**

Sunlight.

The best days of his life.

Oh, yeah, the others were suffering, absolutely, but Berwald wasn't ashamed to say that he couldn't have cared less about them if he had actually given an effort to. Not laying in bed, for that very first sunrise, and having someone beside of him who fully intended to stay there from now on. Not seeing the pale light of dawn in Ludwig's hair.

Dust in the light.

The first time he had ever woken up knowing that somebody was there to give a damn about him. The first time he'd ever woken up knowing that somebody cared about him.

Ludwig, early riser that he was, was fully awake at dawn, but didn't get up that time.

He just laid there, staring at Berwald until he too was awake, and the staring contest that happened then was hardly awkward.

Just silent affection.

Berwald, half-asleep and feeling subdued and calm, reached out a heavy hand, and rested it on Ludwig's cheek. Ludwig smiled, brightly, and stared at him as though he were the only thing left in the world.

No one had ever looked at him like that.

That was the first time in the duration of this long, arduous dance that he had been able to make his hands work. To reach Ludwig before Ludwig reached him. It had taken Ludwig acting first, yeah, but he was proud of himself all the same.

Nothing felt better than running his fingers over Ludwig's face. Knowing that this man stayed beside of him because he wanted to. Feeling warmth.

Safety.

Security.

That, for once, something was _his_.

He wished that he could have stayed there in that bed all day, with Ludwig at his side, and the day after that, too.

To be in a tranquil environment and ignore the fighting going on right outside the door.

Nothing lasted forever though, and it was Ludwig who sat up first, with a sigh, and swung his legs over the side of the bed.

Regret.

Leaving the bedroom was upsetting, and for more than just having to leave Ludwig's side.

Upsetting because setting foot into the living room reminded Berwald quite harshly of the situation they had all found themselves in. Upsetting because everyone was still fighting. Upsetting because brothers had turned against each other.

Upsetting because, as soon as he crossed that threshold, that beautiful look of serenity on Ludwig's face hardened into one of disdain and silent anger.

That Ludwig wasn't _happy_, outside the door.

That Ludwig refused to be in any given room if Lukas was there, too. That Ludwig turned up his chin and slunk away anytime Magnus showed his face.

That none of them were talking to each other.

That Berwald couldn't do a damn thing about it.

Every time they passed, Lukas carried on calmly, as if Ludwig had never been there at all. Magnus watched him go, eyes narrowed and brow furrowed and lips pursed, and when Ludwig had gone, Magnus usually whirled around and kicked the wall.

Berwald had to give Ludwig all due credit for being stubborn, because it was becoming clearer with every passing day that Ludwig was not going to bend first and apologize for anything that had been said or done. If Lukas or Magnus wanted to talk to Ludwig again, _ever_, then they were going to have to make the first move, because Ludwig was doing an exceedingly impressive job of pretending they didn't exist.

Berwald hoped that he never found himself on Ludwig's bad side again.

Timo, perhaps just as stubborn as Ludwig, was also doing an impressive job of keeping a tight grip on that anger.

Berwald couldn't help but wonder if Ludwig and Timo would end up hurting Magnus and Lukas one day, from the alarmingly intense way they sat down together and whispered. Plotting and muttering.

Yikes.

Berwald shuddered, sometimes, just looking at them.

Those two.

The others were still angry, too, but they were considerably less threatening. Lukas didn't talk to anyone, not anyone, and Magnus moped around in corners and looked miserable, unshaven and messy as he was.

Berwald had thought, honestly, that Magnus would be the first one to break, as desperate for attention as he always was.

But he wasn't.

Actually, the one he least expected was the one to make the first effort at peace.

Lukas.

Somehow, Lukas and Ludwig managed to make up before anyone else.

Even after Lukas had called Ludwig something he shouldn't have.

Berwald wasn't there to witness their reconciliation; all he knew was that he came into the hall one morning, and saw them sitting on the loveseat, murmuring to each other in a manner that was reminiscent of doves. Lukas had slung an arm over Ludwig's shoulder, as he had they first time they had ever met, and Ludwig had let his legs splay out in what was obviously contentment.

Maybe they had started over, too.

Berwald wondered what Lukas had said, that first time, to diffuse Ludwig. What words had come out of his mouth to erase that other word. How he had approached Ludwig and gotten him to stay there long enough to speak to him.

Ah, hell. Knowin' Ludwig, kind Ludwig, Lukas had probably just walked up to him and said, 'Hi.'

Ludwig was stubborn, but couldn't really seem to stay angry for long. He could keep up the silent treatment for eternity, but only half-heartedly and maybe suffering the entire while.

Lukas and Timo had made up, too, apparently.

Berwald saw them in the kitchen, not quite as cozy as Ludwig and Lukas had been; rather, they stood on separate ends of the room, cautious of each other and quite tense, but speaking to each other all the same.

Better than nothing.

Magnus had yet to cast aside his pride and apologize to anyone.

Berwald gave him two weeks.

Timo and Ludwig could be kinda scary. Who wanted to wait and let them mull things over and then see what unholy revenge they came up with? To let them simmer and get ideas.

Two weeks, tops, and Magnus would fold.

Berwald waited, and, in the meantime, Ludwig grabbed his collar quite roughly and dragged him into corners when the others weren't around.

As far as for what Ludwig came up with for _him_, Berwald was perfectly content to let him mull on it.

The more ideas, the better.

* * *

><p>Twelve days.<p>

Magnus lasted twelve days.

Berwald wished he'd'a put a damn bet on it with Timo, because he had come close.

Actually, to be precise, Magnus lasted eleven days before he crawled back to Timo, and twelve before Berwald saw him trailing behind Ludwig like a slug.

Timo had been quick to forgive, because Timo loved Magnus in the end, but Ludwig carried on quite primly, ignoring the shadow behind him.

Berwald was around to witness this attempt, and didn't waste it; he stood in the open frame of the front door, and watched Magnus slinking morosely behind Ludwig in the living room, as Ludwig kept walking around in circles.

Finally, realizing that Ludwig wasn't going to stop and turn to look at him, Magnus spoke up.

A low, sad whisper.

"Hey... Ludwig."

Berwald didn't care much for this reconciliation, not really, and cared even less to hear Magnus beseeching Ludwig in that tone of voice.

That old jealousy was still under the surface, even though it was in _his_ bed that Ludwig slept.

He fell still all the same, and leaned against the doorframe, turning his back to them and trying to pretend that he was off in space and not paying attention.

Magnus tried again, when there was no answer.

"Ludwig."

A silence.

And then finally, a sharp inhale, and Ludwig said, somewhat stiffly, "What do you want? I'm busy."

Busy?

Walkin' in circles like he was.

Berwald stared off into the forests, and tried to imagine the looks on their faces.

Ludwig, chin held high and posture perfectly straight, eyes narrowed and brow high.

Magnus, slumped and defeated, shadows under his eyes and hair a bit lackluster.

"Listen, Ludwig," Magnus finally began, anxious and probably a bit terrified, "Listen. I just wanted... You know, I mean... That is, I'm—all the shit I said, you know? I didn't really mean it. I get mad, you know."

When they spoke to each other alone, they always used their Jutland dialect.

Not this time.

Magnus was speaking German now, because he was desperate to let Ludwig know that he apparently wanted to kiss and make up.

Berwald curled his lip at that; a bad mental image.

Ludwig gave a prim, uninterested, "Hm."

Magnus tried again, voice ever lower and scratchier and all the more miserable.

"_Oh._ Hey, I say lots of dumb things. You know that already. I'm a big idiot, remember? So don't, you know... Don't take it that way. Didn't mean it. Really. I...I can't really stand ya not talkin' to me. I can't. I just... I just wanna go back to the way it was. Even if we don't, you know, agree or anythin', can't we still talk?"

Ludwig was still.

And then Magnus heaved a sigh of absolute, complete surrender, and submitted.

He must have looked pitiful as he did it.

"Alright, alright! I'm sorry! There, I said it. I'm sorry. Okay? I... I miss you. Ah, hell, I-I miss ya so fuckin' much. I hate fightin' with you. Please talk to me again. Please. Anyway, you already punched me. What else do you want? I'll let you punch me again, if that'll make you feel better. I'll let you do anything you want, if you just fuckin' _talk_ to me. Please talk to me. I'm _sorry_."

Berwald resisted the urge to scoff, and even though it did not fit in with his desire for his men to all get along, some part of him still hoped that Ludwig would utter a prim sigh of disdain and turn away without a word.

Well.

For that first, burning second, anyway.

After that, something in him slumped as much as it had in Magnus, and he wasn't sure why he felt so _sad_, then.

That tone of Magnus' voice.

Begging like that, because he missed someone.

Sad.

Maybe Ludwig felt it too, and maybe he couldn't really hold grudges that well after all, for after only a second of hesitation, he heard Ludwig's deep, scratchy voice rumble, lowly, "You're damn right about _that_. You sure are _sorry_."

Another hesitation, and then a sigh.

"Oh. It's alright. I shouldn't've gotten so bent up about it, I guess. You know, I don't think I was ever even really that mad at ya."

A twinge of disappointment.

Magnus was surely smiling now, but Berwald couldn't really bring himself to turn around and look.

Magnus' voice was so much brighter, so much happier, so much more, well, _Magnus_, when he said, "Whew! That's a relief. Way you are, if I don't clear the air now, somethin' might happen to me while I'm asleep! You can be a little scary."

Ludwig laughed.

A rustle.

No doubt they were hugging now.

Berwald tried to pretend that their hug wasn't nearly as intimate as the insecure part of him imagined it was.

That Magnus' fingers weren't clenched in Ludwig's shirt.

That Ludwig wasn't resting his head on Magnus' shoulder.

Then he heard Ludwig suddenly murmur, rather gently, "I still kinda wanna punch you again, though."

Magnus quickly backtracked with a high-pitched, "Too late! Already shook on it."

"Damn."

It got a little quiet, then, and when Berwald finally turned around, Ludwig and Magnus were just standin' there, staring at each other, and the look in Magnus' eyes was still so fuckin' _threatening_ to Berwald, even though Ludwig slept beside of him and not Magnus.

Magnus loved Ludwig, of that he had no doubt.

The manner of that love, though, always scared him to think about.

No matter how hard he tried to be confident.

All the same, despite Berwald's insecurities, the tense air started to settle, for the first time in weeks.

At least until they were forced to figure out what the hell came next.

Then things got a little awkward again.

"Well," Timo said, as they sat in a room together for the first time since the sides had flipped, "Now that we're all _friends_ again, can we talk?"

Timo seemed enthusiastic, although the word 'friends' had been a little terse, at best.

His energy put the others on guard. It was hard enough to argue with Timo, but nearly impossible to do so when it was about anything having to do with Finland. Timo's passion was intimidating, in a way, even if he himself wasn't.

Somehow, though, they all managed to sit down and shut up long enough to make eye contact with each other.

For the first time, it was Berwald who managed to speak up before the others.

"Well. We're not splittin' up. We stay t'gether, or we all go home. That was what we agreed on. If one of us wants to quit, we all quit."

He thought he saw, out of the corner of his vision, Timo roll his eyes.

Irritated him more than it stung, but he ignored it all the same.

Ludwig said, immediately, "I won't kill any Germans."

This time, no fight started, and everyone attempted to speak in a civil manner.

Surprisingly.

Magnus said, as calmly as was possible for him, "Well, I won't kill any Reds."

An uncomfortable silence.

Lukas raised his hand then, like they were in fuckin' class, and Berwald actually had to point at him before he spoke.

Ugh.

"I have an idea," Lukas said, easily.

They waited.

Silence.

Magnus prodded, "Yeah?"

Lukas looked around at them in turn, and finally started voicing his 'idea'. "Well, since we aren't going to change our minds anytime soon about whose side we're on, and since it's not fair to force someone to fight someone they don't want to, _and_ since we shouldn't split up after all this time, what if we compromise?" He turned his eyes to Magnus, and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You and I can go together and work with the Soviets"—Timo's nose crinkled distastefully, but he stayed silent—"and Timo and Ludwig can go work with the Finns. Berwald can go with whatever group he wants to. We come back to a meeting place at the end of the day, or whenever, and we all come home together. We drink together, we talk to each other like we always have, and when we're out, we mind our own business. How about that? That way nobody's feelings get hurt, and nobody has to go against any countrymen. What do you think?"

A short hesitation, as they looked around at each other.

Berwald looked down at his shoes, lips pushed out a bit, and couldn't help but think that that seemed completely and entirely counterproductive.

As many Reds as Timo and Ludwig killed, Magnus and Lukas would kill an equal amount of Germans.

How did that solve anything?

They cancelled each other out, and what was the point of that? What good would that do to anyone?

But...

It was Timo who somehow heaved a sigh, and said, "I can agree to that."

"Me too," Magnus added, perhaps with a little relief that Timo hadn't gotten angry again.

Berwald glanced up at Ludwig, who seemed to consider everything as pointless as Berwald did. He was staring at the wall ahead, arms crossed and lips pursed, and Berwald could see right off how damn tired he looked.

Ludwig was tired of killing. Tired of fighting.

Tired of being here.

Ludwig wanted to go home, wherever it was that home may have been.

Still, though, Ludwig would never be the one to 'quit'. Not him. He was too proud to be the one that said it was over, and have the others always remember him as a coward for it. Too stubborn.

So, Ludwig shrugged a shoulder and muttered, "Yeah. Sure. Fine."

Then they all looked at Berwald, and he didn't have much of a choice but to say, "Alright, then. We know what to do. Nobody goes off without tellin' someone." He shot a very pointed look at Lukas, who nodded complacently, and then at Timo, who nodded with much less enthusiasm. "And we go in pairs. Timo doesn't go anywhere without Ludwig, and Lukas doesn't go anywhere without Magnus. That's the deal. Agree?"

They nodded, and Berwald felt no better for it.

Each side for itself.

Wasn't supposed to be that way.

They had promised each other they would work together. They were supposed to be brothers, and yet now they had split themselves.

It was Lukas who looked at Berwald then, and asked, "Where are you going, Berwald?"

Where could he go? Caught in between them, as he was.

Torn between Ludwig, who he loved, and fighting against the Germans as his conscience demanded.

It took him a long time to say, drearily, "I don't know."

Ludwig looked at him, and seemed just as disheartened.

* * *

><p>The first time they went out was kind of tense.<p>

Stiff and awkward.

Had been since the conversation, and when Berwald and Ludwig had laid down to sleep the previous night, they had only stared at the ceiling, both unsure of what there really was to say.

Berwald knew that Ludwig wasn't fond of the side he had taken, although it was unstated, and the feeling was mutual.

Ludwig still took his hand, though, and held it throughout the night.

Fingers intertwined.

Ludwig's leg wound up on top of Berwald's.

They didn't stop caring for each other just because the world told them they should have gone separate ways.

It wasn't ever that easy to break apart something like that.

All of them.

In the morning, it became clear that none of them were comfortable, but they were there all the same.

None of them had had a good nights sleep.

They didn't really look much at each other, not when they were dressing and not when they walked outside, not when they slung their rifles over their backs. Not when it was time to split up, for the first time.

Felt so _wrong_.

Standing there before each other on different sides, and yet knowing they would come back together at the end of the day and greet each other as they always had. Seeing Timo and Ludwig on the east, and Magnus and Lukas on the west.

Berwald stood in the middle, feeling defeated.

Demoralized.

He didn't even look up from the ground until Lukas asked him, again, "Where are you going today, Berwald?"

This time, he couldn't say, 'I don't know.'

Couldn't sit there and mope. Couldn't think about it too much. He had to go somewhere, and with someone.

And the other side would feel a little betrayed for it.

His head hurt and so did his chest, and it took him a long time to finally sigh through his nose and incline his head towards Lukas in acknowledgement.

Ludwig looked a little hurt, but didn't protest. Didn't argue.

Didn't say a word.

It hurt Berwald more than he could say to set off in that forest, knowin' that Ludwig was heading the opposite direction. That he couldn't keep Ludwig safe, assuming that he would even be able to, the way Ludwig was.

That Ludwig wasn't beside of him.

That they headed off in that moment to fight for different causes.

Getting home that night, though, walking through the door and seeing Ludwig already there, safe and sound, there weren't any words he had for that feeling. When Ludwig looked up at him and smiled, even though Berwald had gone the other way. When Ludwig came in to sleep later, and curled up against him as if they hadn't been apart at all.

When Ludwig kissed his forehead in the morning without a word.

Couldn't stand it.

So the next time, when they stood there and it was decision time, Berwald inclined his head in Ludwig's direction.

The smile that Ludwig quickly smothered was worth Magnus' grimace.

He didn't want to kill anymore Reds, but he didn't want any Reds killlin' Ludwig, either, so it seemed to him that since they were already being insane he may as well go back and forth between them.

One day, he went with Lukas and Magnus.

The next, he went with Ludwig and Timo.

Easier that way, and he could keep all of them happy.

Except for himself, but that hadn't ever really been a luxury of his, not as the leader.

Sure was glad, though, on those days when he could keep fearless Ludwig in his sights. To keep an eye on him, to be able to have his back.

Worried about him so much that it made him sick sometimes.

And beyond that, beyond the fact that Ludwig wasn't on the side that Berwald wanted him to be, Berwald was content all the same to walk beside of him, and more so when they wound up by themselves in the quiet forest, because he loved Ludwig more than any cause.

Anything.

Ludwig coulda said that he wanted to go back to fuckin' Germany and get back into the army, and Berwald probably would have said, 'Where do I sign up?'

Just to _stay_ with him.

Killing Reds was worth it, as long as Ludwig stayed.

Going with Ludwig and Timo was all work, all seriousness, but it still felt damn good to crouch there in the dirt, in the wilderness and in piles of twigs and leaves, next to Ludwig, who always looked over at him long enough to shoot him a smile. Even behind the mask, Berwald knew he was smiling, in the crinkling of his eyes.

No matter the circumstance, when Ludwig was there, Berwald was happy.

Sometimes, just covering Timo and his guys was all they ever did, and they were content with that.

Hiding back behind a tree one sunny afternoon, gloved hands pressing into the ground to keep his balance, Berwald stayed silent and still, and merely watched through the scope as Timo and his men conversed in the trees below. Planning their next moves and trading things with other Finnish groups. Sometimes, Berwald could hear Timo laughing.

Ludwig, on his stomach and eagle eyes scanning the horizon to keep them covered, seemed perfectly comfortable, despite the heat and humidity.

And Berwald was perfectly comfortable just watching him, whenever he could pull away from his own scope enough to spare a glance.

Covered head to toe in the dark coats that they had become dependent on in summer, his pale hair covered and face hidden by the dark mask, Ludwig was really just an extension of the landscape, invisible and cloaked in a veil of earthy colors.

Only the gleam of the scope catching the sun every so often would have let anyone know they were there at all.

Even so bland, so dulled and camouflaged, Ludwig was somehow still the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Every time Ludwig looked over at him, the flush of heat on his neck was a bit uncomfortable, and it was impossible to stay morose, no matter what was going on in his head.

Hours passed.

An uneventful day, certainly. Timo and his men had been here since dawn, and not one sight of a Red.

Berwald would never complain about that.

Nothing moved ahead.

Silence.

Only the occasional drifting of leaves and twigs that fell from the swaying pine branches above.

This task would have been far too boring and time-consuming for Magnus and Timo, Lukas too, but Ludwig seemed to have infinite patience, and no matter how many hours passed, he sat still, keeping the rifle swaying back and forth in languid motions. Timo could have hung out with his men there for days on end, and Ludwig wouldn't have moved a muscle.

Even Berwald shifted every hour or so to keep from cramping.

Ludwig seemed immune.

Ludwig glanced up at him, a while later, and smiled.

"Getting tired?"

A faint hint of a whisper, drifting above the wind.

Berwald shook his head.

But Ludwig didn't seem to believe him, and added, "You can lay down, you know."

Well.

Never refuse an offer, and splaying down beside of Ludwig was more comfortable than he liked to admit. Not the place for, er, cuddling, as it might have been, but Berwald found it increasingly difficult to separate himself from Ludwig, for any reason at all.

Ludwig was going to be the death of him.

So they just pressed themselves together, whispering every now and again, and covered Timo until dusk.

Berwald left Timo and Ludwig to head back first, to make sure the way to the house was clear, and as he stood up, he made sure to press his palm into Ludwig's shoulder, in a silent farewell.

The sun had vanished.

When he crept into the safe zone, their meeting point, he saw that Lukas and Magnus were already there, chatting. Magnus saw him first, looked him up and down, and sent him a crinkled grimace.

"Well. How many heroes you kill today?"

What a lovely greeting after a long day. Magnus was a charmer, alright.

Wouldn't ever understand what Timo saw in that man.

Berwald slung his rifle heavily over his shoulder, and replied, calmly, "Timo's gonna ask you the same thing."

Magnus' sneer fell quickly enough, as he turned his gaze away to the trees.

Heroes were relative. Views changed from person to person. Magnus' heroes wore stars on their caps. Timo's heroes wore eagles.

That was all.

And when Timo and Ludwig joined them, Magnus just shifted his weight a little, looking abashed, and averted his gaze from Timo to the ground.

It was easier to understand one side a little more when you compared them to your own.

Sometimes, things just didn't work out the way they were supposed to.

Life went on.

A month passed, in this back and forth manner, before something exciting finally happened.

Berwald had gone with Lukas and Magnus, deep into a stretch of forest they had never been in before, and they had split up, just enough to be out of sight but not sound.

Ludwig and Timo were somewhere in here, too, not too far away but looking for different things.

Berwald didn't let any of them stray too far nowadays.

He worried all the time.

Felt different that day. In that place. Berwald, uncomfortable in this new surrounding and always fretting about Ludwig, had been abnormally tense all day and ready to head back, though nothing had yet happened.

This stretch was quiet.

He didn't like it.

Didn't like the unfamiliar trails. Didn't like the patches of barbed wire they found sometimes. Didn't like the spent shells that crunched under their boots quite frequently. Didn't like the bullet holes in the tree bark.

Didn't like the _silence_.

So _quiet_ all the time, as if even the wildlife had abandoned this forest in fear.

The noon sun blazed overhead.

Berwald was on his toes, jittery and nervous.

Suddenly, a break in the silence.

A cry over the still forest.

"Hey!"

He straightened up, as Magnus' loud voice echoed through the trees.

A horrible, earth-stopping moment of terror.

Hearing one of them scream, in this unnerving place.

Berwald had already started running before he even knew where the hell he was going, rifle clenched and boots slinging out mud and leaves.

Magnus called again.

"Hey, come here! Look what I found!"

...found?

When he skidded through the trees, tracking down Magnus' voice and panicking, so many things were running through his head that he was starting to get dizzy. Everything that could have gone wrong.

If someone was hurt.

"Over here!"

A swift turn of direction, a pinpoint of Magnus' voice, and then, suddenly, Berwald saw him.

And _it._

It.

He stumbled to a halt, brow low and eyes wide, and was so startled that all he could do was reach up and yank his mask down, as if it were somehow obstructing his view.

What he felt, squirming in his chest, was close to outright terror.

Still smoking, somewhat buried in the muddy bank of the river where Magnus stood, gleaming in the bright sun and looking quite ominous against the quiet forest and pristine trees, was some kind of tank.

No, not a tank.

Different.

Magnus poked his head over from the other side, resting his hands on the machine and beaming cheekily from over the steel. "Look what I found! A goddamn Panzerjäger!"

Magnus seemed content and proud, but Berwald shuddered at the sight.

They hadn't ever encountered heavy artillery like this. Not once. Not in all these years. They hadn't ever run into such _danger_. Something like that.

He swore to himself, right then and there, that they would never come in this forest again, not ever. Not here. He wouldn't allow any of them to come back in this direction.

Oh, where was Ludwig right now? Was he safe?

The battles that were obviously taking place here were for armies and real soldiers; out of their league.

Even Ludwig's.

Oh.

Ludwig _had_ to be safe.

Fuckin' _tanks_.

"Well?"

Magnus was staring at him.

"What do you think?"

Still...

A machine like that was always valuable, once danger was gone, and Magnus knew it.

He leered at Berwald, waiting for some kind of praise.

Berwald gave the forest a quick scope, heart hammering, but when everything came back clear, he finally raised his brow, and, had it been anyone else, he would have said, 'Good job!'

But it was Magnus, so he said, "Hm."

Lukas finally joined them a few minutes later and walked around the machine, eyeballing it a bit eagerly as he asked, silkily, "Does it work?"

Magnus shrugged a shoulder. "Dunno. Engine's smokin'. Probably not. That's why it's here, I guess, but I bet we can fix it, can't we?"

They sat still, pondering, and then Magnus reached up, cupping his gloved hands around his mouth and bellowing, as loud as he could, "_Ludwig_! Hey, Ludwig!"

Birds scattered.

Berwald reached out like lightning, grabbed Magnus by the collar, and shook him.

Not too hard, but enough to get Magnus' full attention.

"Are you _stupid_?"

Aside from the obvious fact that they were supposed to be _silent_, the fuckin' moron, there was another glaring issue that Magnus seemed to have overlooked.

Berwald was quick to let him know, and shook him again.

Magnus gawked at him, a breath away from punching Berwald in the face, but when Berwald hissed, lowly, "Did ya even _think_ to check and see if there were any dead soldiers in it before you start callin' him over like a dog?" he fell still.

Magnus' fury faded into something that Berwald could have sworn was mortification.

Shame, maybe.

He couldn't keep Ludwig from the cruelty of the world, not all the time, but he could do it this once.

And Magnus did his best to oblige.

Without a word, Magnus broke free of his grip and hopped up into the hatch of the disabled Panzerjäger, poking his head in with wide eyes. Magnus was dumb sometimes, sure was, but Berwald was certain that he wouldn't ever have put Ludwig in a position like that, not intentionally.

A short search, a great sigh, and an abashed Magnus hopped back down, muttering gruffly, "It's clear."

Berwald grimaced and shook his head irritably, but didn't berate him more.

He'd learned his lesson, hopefully.

It wasn't long before Ludwig and Timo materialized as if from thin air, appearing out of the trees and making no sounds in their wake, their guns up and eyes frightened.

Ludwig looked beyond alarmed, worried, perhaps, that something had gone wrong. To hear his name called like that, when he and Magnus weren't on the same side anymore.

His eyes fell on Berwald immediately.

Berwald shrugged a shoulder, trying to say, 'It's alright.'

A short look around, and Timo and Ludwig lowered their shoulders a bit when they realized there was no immediate danger.

They pulled down their masks, as Berwald had.

Ludwig saw the smoke, then, and turned his head.

A soft gasp, and a flash of movement, as Ludwig leapt like a rabbit.

As soon as he saw the Iron Cross on the side of the vehicle, as soon as he recognized a German machine, Ludwig was on it in a second, placing a gloved hand on the metal and looking so damn _homesick _suddenly. A darkening of his eyes. A crinkle in his brow. A tensing of his jaw.

Longing.

His face was focused and intense, completely and rather pitifully enamored with that machine as he walked around it, hand never lifting from the steel.

A little twinge of hurt, seein' Ludwig like that.

Feeling so far away from home. Seeing something familiar after all this time and wanting to be close to it.

Ludwig turned to look at Magnus and Lukas then, suddenly, a tension in his face that was obvious, and Berwald knew that Ludwig thought they had killed the crew.

Odd, in a way, to see how differently two men could react to the sight of an Iron Cross.

Lukas was the one who said, "It was empty when we got here."

Ludwig turned his eyes to Berwald, as if seeking confirmation, and Berwald nodded.

Ludwig took their word for it, and returned his attention to the machine before him, running his hand over every inch of it and admiring it as if he were looking back at Germany itself.

Sad.

Magnus spoke up, then, and asked, "What are we gonna do with it? _We_ can't use it."

Timo said, quickly, "I know who can. But it's busted. Can't get anything for it if it doesn't work."

Each of them looked at Ludwig, who didn't really seem to be listening.

Lukas was the one to finally state what Berwald had been thinking, in a low voice. "If it's fixable, then they would have done it. They wouldn't have left it here unless something was chasing them out."

A long, uncomfortable silence.

Timo and Berwald pulled their masks back up, then, and surely felt equally anxious.

If there were Reds in here that had chased off the German crew, then they wouldn't look at this group and know right off if they were friend or foe. They'd shoot 'em, without asking any questions, just in case.

Ludwig was oblivious to their worry.

Time seemed pressing, so Berwald tried to get his attention with a gentle call of his name.

When Ludwig looked back, Berwald was glad to see that his eyes were clear and bright.

The homesickness had gone.

Bolstered, Berwald asked, somewhat impatiently, "So. Can ya fix it?"

Magnus was waiting, eagerly.

Ludwig placed a hand on his hip, and then cast Berwald a narrow-eyed look of disbelief, and scoffed to himself, lowly and somewhat sarcastically, "Can I _fix _it?"

A laugh.

Ludwig cracked his knuckles, bristling in sudden excitement.

"No problem!"

* * *

><p>No problem.<p>

Sure.

Bullshit.

Ludwig was young, but he could bullshit with the best of them.

Three fuckin' hours, and he and Magnus were still underneath the damn tank-buster, still struggling.

Oh, well. Maybe he wasn't one to talk. He could barely figure out one end of a wrench from the other, let alone actually try to give them a hand. Timo and Lukas seemed hardly bothered, crouched on either side of the machine and keeping focused eyes on the forest, and Berwald just found himself alone off to the side, rifle in hand and staring rather enthusiastically at Ludwig's long legs, poking out from under the machine.

...well, maybe it wasn't such a hassle, waiting.

Magnus and Ludwig had shed their coats to get under the vehicle, head to head, and trusted the others to make sure no one snuck up on them while they worked.

The smell of oil hung in the air.

The temperature kept on rising as the sun crept ever higher, and Berwald had caved in long before and taken off his mask and hood as the sweat had starting dripping into his eyes.

Timo had rolled up his sleeves, and even Lukas wiped his forehead every so often.

The humidity must have made it miserable under the machine.

Some progress seemed to be made, though, when a spark shot out from the cables beneath, and from under the great steel tank-buster Berwald heard Ludwig shriek, in a high voice, "Goddamn piece of _shit_!"

Or not.

Magnus' barking laughter followed, and Berwald only rolled his eyes as Magnus and Ludwig snitted at each other, their heads probably bumping together in the center.

"You connected the wrong one!"

Ludwig griped something low and unintelligible, and then said, irritably, "Toss me that fuckin' bolt."

"Can't you see I'm holding the goddamn cables? Get it yourself!"

"You're a real dick, ya know?"

"I know!"

From the other side, Timo heaved a sigh of exasperation.

Berwald tugged his collar a bit. Eh. Alright, so maybe Ludwig could be as much of a 'charmer' as Magnus was.

Sometimes.

Ludwig's legs kicked a bit, no doubt in frustration.

"You got two hands, don't'cha?"

"Occupied!"

"You—ah, fuck, I got it. Here, look. Hold that."

A short silence, and then another spark.

Magnus was the one to cry out that time, likely having been shocked.

Maybe intentionally, by an aggravated Ludwig.

Berwald found himself a bit satisfied by that.

"Hold still!"

"Well then stop shockin' me you son of a bi—"

"Hold _still_!"

A clamor beneath, Ludwig's muttering, and then Magnus shrieked again.

"_SHIT_!"

At the same moment that Magnus cried out, there was a great clatter, a buzz, and the engine roared to life.

With a rough grunt of satisfaction, Ludwig's hands gripped the front of the vehicle and he pushed himself out from beneath quite quickly, Magnus crawling out right after him.

The sound of it suddenly seemed far too loud in this unfriendly place.

Berwald was ready to go, anxious as he was.

Ludwig and Magnus stood there side by side for a moment, observing their work, covered head to toe in motor oil, clothes disheveled and hair matted, and Magnus' hand was dripping blood down his sleeve. Must have cut it, somewhere along the way. Their eyes seemed far brighter when they were the only things that weren't covered in soot, and Berwald couldn't help but a stare a bit.

Huh.

Well, now he knew what Ludwig woulda liked like if he weren't a blond.

Always nice to see pristine Ludwig when he was messy.

The armored car sat there and the engine purred as if nothing had ever been wrong with it, and there was no doubt that they were very proud of themselves.

Placing his blackened hands on his hips, his now-black hair sticking up to high heaven, Ludwig looked over his shoulder and caught Berwald's eye, and said, somewhat haughtily, "And that's how you fix a Panzerjäger!"

Magnus reached out with his bloody hand and clapped Ludwig firmly on the back, as Timo said from behind, "Good job, guys! You just won us a hell of a lot of good stuff. Let's get rolling."

They grabbed up their coats, and were quick to set out.

Magnus leapt onto the vehicle quite eagerly, followed by a bouncing Timo. Lukas stared up at them, and then stepped up, speaking quietly to himself under his breath.

Ludwig just stood there.

And Berwald realized that Ludwig was still staring at him.

Didn't take too long to find out why; as soon as the others were out of sight, occupied with figuring out the machine, Ludwig reached out, snatched Berwald by the back of the neck, yanked him in, and kissed him rather ferociously.

No time to think.

Before he could even react or get his hands moving, Ludwig had let him go and was already walking to the tank-buster. He pulled himself up, leaving Berwald to stand there like an idiot below, gawking. It took him a second to come back down to earth, and it was only when Timo cried, "Berwald, you comin' or not?" that he got his feet working and trotted over.

If the others noticed the oil on the back of his neck when he climbed up, then they didn't say anything.

He was grateful for that.

At least until he was the one that had to fuckin' walk, because they couldn't all fit inside the machine, and then his gratitude went flyin' out the window.

When the tank-buster started creeping along, Berwald just sighed and held his rifle up against his chest, and trudged along with it.

Figured.

Ludwig popped open the top a while later, crossed his arms and leaned out from the hatch, leered down at Berwald a bit, and asked, over the wind, "Want some company?"

Berwald looked up at him, and said, a little snippily, "I think ya should get out anyway. Slow as the damn thing's goin', looks like yer weighin' it down."

Ludwig clicked his tongue, grumbled, "Ow!" and then very swiftly and agilely leapt down.

A prim lift of his chin and a quick glance later, Ludwig had somehow forced Berwald's pace ever slower so that they were behind the machine. Shoulda been watching for soldiers, yeah, but Berwald found his focus very much broken. Every few feet they walked, Ludwig brushed up against him, and snatched his hand for a second before letting it go.

Berwald was glad that the dark coat made the oil Ludwig was smearing all over him less obvious.

Sometimes, Ludwig reached up, ran a black hand through his black hair, and then reached out to tussle Berwald's.

Intentionally covering him in soot, just to irritate him.

Just stupid, affectionate actions of a young man.

Berwald loved every second of it, oil or no.

The slow pace didn't bother Berwald anymore, and he was content the entire four hours it took for them to get out of the forest and back into visible territory, just because Ludwig was paying him attention.

He looked over his shoulder sometimes, because he was fascinated by the tracks they left in the soft earth.

His had always been solitary.

Seeing a set of footprints next to his own was inexplicably breathtaking.

Simple things like that.

It was he that reached out, right at the cusp of the forest, and grabbed Ludwig's hand for once, and the smile that Ludwig sent him was just another one of those enchanting things about being _with_ someone.

Together.

He didn't want to fight anymore.

All he wanted now was for this fuckin' war to end, so that he could grab Ludwig by the waist, pull him up against his chest, and ask him to come _home_ with him, even if Ludwig would refuse. Still worth it, just to have the opportunity to ask.

Home.

When the trees were behind them and smoke rose in the distance beyond the towns, Timo led the way, over towards the Finnish rebels that controlled the land in the east.

Didn't take too long to get there.

They had set up a little market of sorts, the Finns, long tables full of guns and ammunition, cars and machine-guns up for bartering.

An interesting place, but one Berwald couldn't say he was too comfortable in.

Still, though, that was the first time that all of them had gone together to do something since their great divide, and it felt more than a little wonderful to have them all standing there like before, in front of Finnish fighters who looked over the tank-buster while talking to Timo.

Almost like old times.

But not quite.

Felt a bit wrong, knowing that whatever these men gave them would be later turned on them by Magnus and Lukas.

Magnus must have been thinking the same, because he kept scratching his dirty hair and shuffling his feet.

Well, the world was shitty, wasn't it, and all anyone could ever do was just go along with it.

So when the men stood up straight, satisfied that the machine was in working order, and went off to talk amongst themselves, they just waited and avoided too much eye contact.

With the exception of Ludwig and Timo, who saw these men as allies.

At least until their offer was made.

Then Ludwig and Timo didn't seem so content.

Or friendly.

The Finns made their offer, set the guns and bullets on the table, all five of them, and Berwald had nearly opened his mouth to say, 'There's no _way_ that this is all you're givin' us for a fuckin' _Panzerjäger_!'

Before he could start a riot, however, someone else beat him to it.

Coming forward with squared shoulders and a furrowed brow, Ludwig stomped his foot, put his palms on the table, and cried, "_Hey! _You tryin' to rip us off or what? Come on, come on, what else ya got?"

The Finns turned to each other, conversed a little, and put a few more things down. But only a few.

Ludwig, hardly satisfied, kept sweeping his hand forward over the table in the international gesture for 'more'.

"What else? Come on. That's not enough."

One of them started shaking his head, reluctant to give them any more, and Berwald reached up to scratch at the back of his neck as the man and Ludwig started screaming at each other, and he let his mind wander off a bit when staring at them became a little too awkward.

His fingernails came back black with motor-oil.

Every now and again Ludwig slammed his palms on the table in anger.

Oh, man.

He'd heard Ludwig scream before, when he had been tied up to the bed so long ago, and it was just as frightening as he remembered. It was a little interesting, though, to see Ludwig go from calm to riot in a few seconds. To hear his low, rumbling voice rise up into a shriek.

To hear him scream.

...well, maybe the next time he tied Ludwig to the bed—

Nope.

There he went, getting ahead of himself again.

He shook his head, shoved aside any, ah, out of place thoughts, and put his attention back where it should be. Quickly, he saw that Magnus had come up to Ludwig's side and had joined in the ruckus, always eager to jump into a fight. They leaned forward beside of each other, hands on the table and speaking loudly, and tried to force more out of the men.

Either one of them could be intimidating on their own, but putting them together, with their booming voices and broad shoulders and sharp eyes and still covered in grease and oil as they were, was kinda scary.

Perhaps even to those hardened Finns.

Eventually, more was put upon the table. Maybe it was because Ludwig was as German as the machine they were bartering for, maybe it was because the Finns had a soft spot for Germans, or maybe they just liked the fact that Ludwig had the gall to bitch at them, but whatever it was, they gave in, and upped the ante.

Finally, a deal was reached.

"That's more like it!" Ludwig said, and with that, he swung his fist around, clapped hands with the Finn, and they shook on it.

As an afterthought, Ludwig took a glance at the Soviet sniper rifles lined up behind the men, and lifted his head.

"How much for one of those?"

Seeing his gaze, the Finn was quick to start speaking, and although only Timo understood him, Ludwig still put his glove in his mouth and reached into his wallet.

Yet again, the Finn and the German argued back and forth, and, yet again, it was Ludwig who came out victorious, and took the rifle for less than what the Finn wanted.

Triumphant and quite pleased with himself, Ludwig put his wallet up, smoothed his greasy hair, and came back to the group.

"What the hell you want that thing for?" Magnus asked, and Ludwig was quick to toss it to him.

"For you, 'cause you can't shoot for shit."

Magnus looked down at the rifle in his hand, and furrowed his brow. "You tryin' to get me killed or something? I can't use this!"

Ludwig just looked over at him, and said, quite sternly, "You're gonna learn. We'll practice tomorrow."

"Shoulda saved your money."

"Actually," Ludwig said, primly, "It was your money. Your gun, your money."

Timo laughed, whether it was true or not.

They walked on, in relative silence, carting their bags of goods.

Ludwig looked over at Magnus a bit later, lips pursed in what might have been apprehension, and then he said, oddly, "It's just... My guys are good shots, you know? I kinda—I worry about ya, sometimes. When I'm not there."

Normally, hearing Ludwig say, 'my guys' woulda made Lukas and Magnus glare a bit.

This time, though, Lukas looked straight ahead and didn't utter a word, and Magnus only managed a weak, amicable scoff before he dropped his head and stared at the rifle over his chest.

My guys.

Still his guys, and yet Ludwig put their safety first, because he loved them.

Timo looked a little strange, and Berwald knew it was because Timo was torn between Magnus' safety and the German soldiers he admired so.

Berwald was glad, then, that he didn't know what it felt like to have a country he loved under siege, and men he loved who opposed him.

Neutral was a curse sometimes.

But not always.

After a while, Timo seemed to find thinking too much to his disliking, and tried to break the silence.

"So, Ludwig!" he said, as they walked along with weary feet, "You sure can scream when you feel like it. Think you scared 'em more than an army ever could."

Berwald felt like clearing his throat for some reason.

Ludwig just smiled a little, and shrugged a shoulder.

"My brother had a big mouth. I had to scream just to get him to listen to me. Guess after a while I just got used to it. He was always fightin' with me, so I had to be louder."

Berwald walked with them, brow furrowed, and turned his eyes to the ground.

It took him a while there to realize that Ludwig had started speaking about his brother in the past tense. As if, when everything was said and done, he intended to stay put.

As if he really wanted to stay.

Things like that, those little things, made it so hard for Berwald not to get his hopes up.

He wanted Ludwig to stay, even if Germany ended the war tomorrow and became a peaceful paradise.

He wanted Ludwig to stay with him.

* * *

><p>Summer was steadily coming to an end.<p>

The fall felt damn good, yeah, and yet it was still sad, in a way, to see the season end.

Ludwig in the sunlight.

September crept up, Magnus never learned how to shoot the sniper rifle, and the leaves started to change color, just a bit.

The weather was more temperate.

Most days were pleasant.

The most pleasant day of all came out of nowhere, really, when Berwald was laying alone in bed and trying to catch a little repose in the midst of this hectic world.

Didn't get to rest too long, though.

Only an hour or so had passed in solitude before he looked up and saw that Ludwig stood there in the doorframe, an odd look on his face.

Berwald peered up at him, and inclined his head in acknowledgement.

No rest was ever good enough to ignore Ludwig.

Ludwig wasted no time, and was quick to cross his arms and suddenly appear very serious.

"Come with me."

When everything was considered, Berwald had every right to be suspicious of sly Ludwig, but then Ludwig turned tail and walked off before Berwald could even ask, 'Why?', and Berwald was hardly embarrassed when he found himself tumbling out of bed and trotting after Ludwig like a puppy.

Anything Ludwig wanted.

Caught sight of him leaving the house, and Berwald looked over both shoulders to make sure he wasn't being followed. Who could ever say what these weirdos came up with, especially with the minds of Lukas and Ludwig.

He reached the front door and pushed it tentatively open, to see Ludwig standing down below the porch on the grass. Berwald stopped there to grab his boots, until Ludwig glanced back, waved his hand in the air, and said, "You don't need shoes! Come on! Come here."

Berwald did, and when Ludwig finally stopped walking, a little ways down the hill, he pointed out to the lake below.

Berwald only had a second to think about the fuckin' mines Lukas had planted—

"Look."

It took a moment for Berwald to think, especially when Ludwig suddenly plopped down onto his back in the grass, arms spread out at his sides and looking up at the sky like a kid.

A twinge of anxiety, as he tried to remember Lukas' map.

All those little dots.

A burst of noise and color startled him, and when he turned his eyes to the lake, Berwald saw little boats, drifting here and there, lit up with candles and lamps, and they were setting off fireworks.

Glimmering and streaks of color in the heavens.

Glints of gold and fluttering pinks and blues.

Trails of smoke.

Ludwig craned his neck back and gawked up at Berwald, saying, with more excitement than he really needed to have about something he couldn't join in, "They're having a party! Timo said someone got married. Pretty, isn't it?"

Pretty?

The remnants of flame shimmered down and vaporized near the water.

A faint smell of smoke on the wind.

Berwald couldn't think of anything to say, even as his mouth opened.

A whistle, as another firework shot off.

Ludwig, lit up in shades of pastel.

Ludwig heaved a sigh, his chest falling, and seemed very much at peace, whispering, "They sound happy. It's kinda nice."

Peace.

Ludwig's fingers were brushing over the tips of the grass, back and forth.

Just like that, as randomly as a bolt of lightning, Berwald felt it.

Something stopped.

He could only fall still then, and time seemed to fall still with him as an odd, warm burst in his chest caught him off guard. Burning. Breathlessness. A feeling that he quickly recognized as awe and wonder.

The mines completely vanished from his mind then. Anyway, hardly a concern, perhaps; Ludwig had all of that memorized.

Couldn't breathe, suddenly.

Not because of the fuckin' fireworks, nor the boats drifting amongst lights on the lake. Not the ripples of the waves, not the moonlight shimmering on the water, not the fireflies up in the trees. Not the happiness of other people, celebrating a joyous occasion in the middle of misery. Not the calm breeze, the clean air, or the perfect temperature.

Not how pretty everything was outside in that instant.

Not the feel of the grass beneath his feet or the sight of the forest swaying in the wind. Not the stars above, or the billowing, white clouds in the distance.

Not the purple sky, or the tint of orange in the horizon.

Not the great, white moon in the sky.

He found himself in awe of Ludwig.

Just that dumb look on Ludwig's face, that happiness that Ludwig somehow felt in that moment, in the middle of a terrible situation and a great war, that Ludwig was somehow still able to fire off that gun and then plop down on the grass, that Ludwig saw fireworks and was mesmerized by them even though he was an adult. That Ludwig could be screaming at someone one day in the brunt and grime of war and then the next day be fawning over mere lights.

That Ludwig was still _Ludwig_.

That Ludwig hadn't really changed at all, in the face of this war.

That Ludwig could still be so...

Berwald couldn't think of the word for it. Not one that seemed to do Ludwig any justice.

Beautiful, maybe.

That Ludwig, the essence and spirit of him, could still be so _beautiful_, in every way, despite it all.

Splayed out there on the grass, watching the sky and looking so content.

Paler than ever in the moonlight.

Happy, because other people were happy.

Ludwig was a soldier. A sniper. A killer. Trained and deadly. Fearless. Brave.

And somehow still a good person.

Somehow still a thoughtful, _kind_ human being.

How?

Berwald felt frozen in time, in a way, as if everything around him had stopped, just looking down at Ludwig, his pale hair blowing in the wind, fingers still feeling the grass and eyes lidded with nothing short of absolute relaxation.

_Awed_, perhaps beyond anything else, that Ludwig could have very much enjoyed this scenery by himself and had instead decided to share it with Berwald.

His chest hurt, suddenly.

A sharp inhale, as his throat threatened to close up.

A strange sense of sadness that could only be brought on by the best kind of happiness, even though when he thought about it a lot it didn't make any sense at all, but that was how Ludwig made him feel.

Lost and helpless.

Enthralled and gloomy at the same time.

Ludwig looked back at him, again, that stupid smile still on his face, and asked, "Aren't you gonna lay down?"

Couldn't, for a while.

Just couldn't seem to move.

Barely able to breathe, and some stupid part of him wanted to cry, for whatever reason.

Captivated as he was by this strange, crazy, beautiful man before him.

Somehow, his clunky feet started moving, and he sat down on the grass, carefully, legs crossed and staring down at Ludwig with absolute and complete bewilderment.

How had this man ever chosen him?

"Lay down," Ludwig repeated, apparently not satisfied that Berwald had sat, and he didn't need to be told a third time.

The feel of earth and grass beneath his back was one that was a long time coming. Actually, he hadn't laid in the grass since Ludwig had kicked him down onto it a year and half ago, and before that, he hadn't laid down in the grass since he was a little kid.

When would he have ever stopped and actually thought about something like _that_, in wartime?

Even then, when he was inert there on the ground, Berwald found his eyes glued to Ludwig. He couldn't have looked away, even if he someone had tried to force him. One of those mines could have gone off, and Berwald wouldn't have even been able to flinch.

Felt remarkably as if Ludwig had somehow cast a spell on him.

Ludwig turned to look at him, face calm and collected, seemingly oblivious to the chaos he was causing within Berwald.

Didn't speak.

Just looked at him.

"Where are the others?" Berwald asked, suddenly, although he was more interested in knowing where they were for his own benefit rather than theirs.

He'd hate to be interrupted in the middle of something so intimate.

Something that meant suddenly so much to him.

Even if it was only a short moment in time. Just a meaningless passage of space that became a memory with every passing second.

Meant everything, then.

But Ludwig just pointed a lazy finger down at the lake, and said, simply, "Down there."

They had gone down and joined the party, huh? Not surprising, if Timo had goaded them on, but...

"Why di'n't _you_ go?"

Ludwig didn't answer that, and just smiled as he eyeballed another firework up above, a bit coyly.

Oh.

Ludwig didn't really need to say it; somehow, Berwald had understood.

'Because I wanted to be with you.'

Berwald's throat did close up a bit then, and air was hard to come by again.

He found himself swallowing frequently.

He blinked anytime he thought he felt his eyes watering.

Cool wind rustled the tall grass near the forest, and the lake rippled.

The smell of water.

Ludwig had turned his head off to the forest, apparently dividing his attention between fireworks and fireflies, charmingly oblivious to the effect he had.

At his sides, Berwald's hands were shaking, just a little.

Every time one of those fireworks went off, Ludwig went as still as rock, giving it his complete attention, and it was one of the most entrancing things Berwald had ever seen, in its sheer simplicity.

Took so little to make Ludwig happy.

Tranquility.

The party seemed to get louder down below, and Berwald had no doubt that it would pick up even more as the hour grew later and people started feeling all of the alcohol they were consuming.

Any other time, maybe he would have tried to envision the others, down there. Tried to picture how Lukas looked at a party, maybe, getting tipsy and then trying to ask a girl to dance with him, with one of those leering smiles and that cool voice being a little charming. How Timo interacted with his own people in a special occasion, how he grabbed Magnus by the hand and tried to make him engage in odd Finnish rituals. How Magnus beamed, completely enamored with Timo, and tried very hard to make a fool of himself in front of the villagers, just so they'd have something to _laugh_ about for once.

Not this time.

All he saw was Ludwig.

And then suddenly he saw Ludwig's hands, because they were up next to his face. Startled, he flinched back automatically, tensing up in an instilled defense mechanism.

Stopping short at his movement, Ludwig smiled over at him, twisted at the waist, brow high and expression light as he asked, lowly, "Hey! Can I just see something?"

The sensation gripping him then was terror, because he didn't know what to expect, and because Ludwig was making his heart beat so fast that he thought he was going to pass out.

Ludwig waited, patiently, those smooth hands still in the air, and finally, somehow, Berwald managed a short, curt nod.

Exhilaration.

Let Ludwig do as he pleased, anything he wanted at all, as long as he _stayed_ here.

At his consent, there was a passing of excitement on Ludwig's face before it gave way to an almost alarming intensity, and before Berwald could have second thoughts and back out of whatever oddity Ludwig was planning, warm hands were on either side of his face.

A chill up his back.

He held his breath without realizing it, and with a single, swift movement, Ludwig had suddenly plucked his glasses neatly from his face.

The stars melded into the sky and the grass and lake blurred together.

Fireworks became great blobs of molten colors.

Fireflies disappeared altogether.

Squinting to the point of discomfort, he looked over and sent Ludwig (or, at the very least, Ludwig's blurry form) a look of utter helplessness.

Being put in the dark like that was always alarming, but being blind _now_, when Ludwig was fuckin' bright and enthralling beside of him, seemed absolutely reprehensible.

What was it with Ludwig and his damn glasses?

"What're ya doin'?" Berwald finally whispered, in a voice that was hardly more than a croak, and he could hear Ludwig 'hm'ing to himself.

"Oh," came the slow, intentional response, "Nothing. I just wanted to see what you look like without your glasses."

Well, that was a lie if he ever heard one.

Ludwig had blinded him so many times now he couldn't even keep count.

Vulnerability.

Reduced to sound and smell without his eyes.

Touch.

"I can't see," he finally said, not as sternly as he would have liked. How did his voice always drop its edge and harshness around Ludwig? Turning into a deep, harmless whisper.

Ludwig had ruined him.

His hammering heart was starting to make him dizzy and faint, or maybe that was just Ludwig, and more than anything else he suddenly just wanted to reach out and grab Ludwig and clench him as hard as he could.

Anything to make these overwhelming sensations and feelings calm.

He'd never been so confused and scared and elated in his entire life. Didn't even know he could be this struck down by emotion at all, not the way he'd always been. Not after so long in that rut.

Years and years in a dull loop.

Ludwig had come out of nowhere.

Somewhere in the forest, owls were hooting.

No distinguishable shapes around.

No specific lines of color.

Nothing.

Just a blurry world and great balls of unfocused light.

A rustle beside of him, and then suddenly he could see Ludwig's pale eyes as he propped himself up and leaned forward, pressing his chest up against Berwald's, and then his face too, and suddenly Ludwig was so close that he could feel warm breath upon his cheek and a nose in his hair.

He could smell him.

A deep, warm whisper next to his ear.

"Can you see _me_?"

Frozen still, he lost his voice.

He could, this close. Ludwig was smiling, and the warmth he felt then was steadily overtaking the terror.

Finally, he nodded, a bit dumbly.

And Ludwig's face lit up like the stars he could no longer see.

Beautiful.

Oh, fuckin' _Christ_, Berwald suddenly wished somebody would come and _save_ him from this man, because it seemed then as if Ludwig was trying to kill him somehow.

Help.

"Well then!" Ludwig said, deep voice low and rumbling, the vibrations through his chest creeping up Berwald's arm, "That's the important thing."

With that, Ludwig rolled back over onto the grass, taking that heat with him.

A long, pitiful silence, as Berwald was already prepared to do whatever the hell Ludwig wanted.

Beg. Plead. Anything.

He would have thrown himself into the lake now had Ludwig asked him to.

The way he felt then.

"Can I have 'em back now?" he somehow managed to ask, in more of a squeak, and was shot down.

"What for?"

"So I can see the lake."

A silence.

"No."

"Why?"

No answer.

Berwald had nearly rolled over to begin a blind grope for his glasses when two strong hands placed themselves upon his chest, and he was shoved quite forcefully back into the grass.

Ludwig quickly rolled back halfway on top of him to keep him from moving again.

A sigh.

The whisper then was so heavy and somehow intimate that Berwald's arms fell down compliantly in the grass, and his racing heart slowed with a sudden lurch of lethargy.

As much as Ludwig could rile him up, seemed he could put him down, too.

"Who needs to see?" Ludwig breathed in his ear. "I'll tell you everything that's happening."

A long, intoxicating run of Ludwig's hands down his neck, and then a head rested on his chest, and Ludwig started speaking.

It was certainly one of the most surreal moments of his life, and some part of him almost declared it the most romantic, assuming that he even really knew the meaning of the word, as he rested there on the grass, one arm loose at his side and the other out behind his head, Ludwig there above him, a hand running up and down the side of his face, and that entrancing voice, murmuring in a deep rumble about everything that was occurring on the lake.

Berwald closed his eyes, slowed his breathing, and, as Ludwig whispered away, he drifted off into another place.

Just hearing Ludwig's voice.

Using his imagination, and trying to put an image to everything Ludwig uttered.

Feeling the rise and fall of Ludwig's chest against his own.

Ludwig was right; who needed to see?

Not then.

The stars and fireflies came back, this time in his head, as Ludwig's words crept into his mind and painted things that were far more fascinating that anything real could be. The fireworks Ludwig described were brighter and bigger than any man could create. The boats more elegant and lit up with far more lights than was possible. The trees were taller than they could ever be in real life, bigger and greener and with far-reaching branches. The amount of stars in the sky had at the very least tripled, and were closer. The moon engulfed most of the sky, and was more blue than white. The fireflies turned the forest into miles of glowing lanterns.

Ludwig was no poet, not by any means, not really that great with words at all, but he didn't have to be. Not at that moment.

Berwald was hypnotized by every word that came out of his mouth.

Everything Ludwig said painted out in his mind with brightness and clarity, and the glasses became meaningless.

That hand stayed on his cheek the whole time.

As time passed, Berwald realized that the amount of time between Ludwig's sentences kept increasing, and, quite frankly, so was his sense of longing.

That feeling of restlessness and the squirming of want.

He never wanted Ludwig to leave.

Not just then, not just in that moment, but ever. He didn't want Ludwig to ever leave, to ever disappear.

He wanted that man beside of him for the rest of his life.

Eternity.

It was then that Berwald gave a shallow, deep sigh, and pretended to fall asleep.

He didn't know why. Maybe just to see what would happen. What Ludwig would do.

Curiosity, perhaps.

It didn't take long to find out.

Ludwig, his rumbling voice babbling away like a brook, finally slowed the pace and pitch of his speech until it had died off completely, apparently aware that he had lost his company to sleep.

Silence, broken only by Ludwig's breathing.

But Ludwig was too clever and too damn hawk-eyed, and when he lifted up his head and pressed his chin into Berwald's collarbone, so close that Berwald could feel his nose brushing his jaw, everything suddenly froze still.

Ludwig became immobile; even stopped breathing for a moment.

And then he pulled back.

Everything was cold again.

Berwald realized quickly that Ludwig had caught on to him somehow, by either the pulse rushing in his neck or the too-loud hammering of his heart.

Ludwig knew he was awake, and was likely smiling.

Wasn't long before Berwald started smiling, too, still squinting his eyes shut and laying still.

Acting, for once, like a kid himself.

Nothing had ever felt that good, and for a while there, Berwald forgot the rifles in the house and the tanks barging through the land. Forgot the bombs planted underground. Forgot the sound of gunfire.

Forgot the war.

Ludwig had made him smile, had made him _happy_, by doing nothing at all.

A soft snort, as Ludwig watched his dumb smile grow wider, and for a second he had almost laughed, feeling so content that his head was almost swaying along with the forest.

"Have a good nap?" Ludwig asked, quite seriously, and Berwald was quick to nod.

"Mm-hm."

But just because he had been caught didn't mean that the feeling of serenity and exhilaration had to go, and when he felt Ludwig sitting up at his side, he snatched out his hand and quickly grasped the cool fabric of Ludwig's sleeve.

"Where are ya goin'?" he asked, lowly, without bothering to open his eyes.

"Nowhere," came the quick response, and when he tugged, Ludwig quickly fell back down into place, and raised up his arms, no doubt tucking them behind his head as he watched the sky.

Berwald hoped, instead, that Ludwig was looking at him.

A long minute passed, as crickets chirped away in the taller grass, and then Berwald felt himself heaving a great sigh.

He could feel Ludwig's warmth so close beside of him, and it struck him like a rock on the head, as that stupid smile refused to leave his face.

Love.

Stronger than everything else around him.

Hadn't ever felt anything like that, and the rush it brought out was like a dam bursting over a great river.

Want.

It was that moment in time that he had realized that he hopelessly and utterly in love with this man.

He found it hard to keep still then, and started shifting.

Ah. What the hell—Ludwig had done it.

So could he.

Opening his eyes, he gave up the feint of sleep and looked over, where a blurry Ludwig was staring up at the sky.

If he didn't do it now, he wasn't going to. Best to not think about it, and be spontaneous.

He couldn't have done it, though, if Ludwig hadn't made him feel so restless in that instant. If Ludwig hadn't turned him into a pile of gaiety just by being there.

His time to act.

He was sure he could do it. He could have done anything that night, with Ludwig at his side.

So, he inhaled a deep breath through his nose, puffed his chest, reminded himself that Ludwig had kissed _him _first, and finally, _finally_, he made his move, his first, real, '_I_ did this' move. The first time that he didn't wait for Ludwig to do something first.

Before Ludwig could sit up again, Berwald rolled over, set his chest firmly atop Ludwig's, braced his arms for balance on either side of Ludwig's shoulders, and crushed their lips together.

Didn't even take a millisecond for Ludwig to grab his hair and pull him down all the farther.

Ludwig had obviously been waiting for this kind of aggression on his part. Probably for a while, now.

...well, better late than never, right?

Ludwig's fingers in his hair was quite the sensation, and somehow Ludwig had managed to pull him completely above him.

He would have been proud of himself, perhaps, feeling Ludwig's knees on either side of him, if he could have removed his mind and attention from Ludwig for even a second.

When he pulled his head back, it was Ludwig that suddenly looked a bit subdued. Still smiling, but only barely, and yet still in such a sincere manner that he may as well have been beaming. Looking calm. Happy.

Gentle hands on his face.

Berwald realized then that he wanted to say, abruptly, 'I love you _so_ fuckin' much.'

So much.

When he opened his mouth, nothing came out.

Silence.

For once, he wasn't disappointed in himself, because the way Ludwig looked at him made him feel as if he'd already said it a thousand times.

Maybe it wasn't something that actually needed to be uttered aloud.

Ludwig's hands wound up on the back of his neck, he plopped down rather heavily onto Ludwig, buried his face in Ludwig's chest, and sighed.

Didn't seem possible that one person had the power to make another person so happy.

Ludwig squeezed him quickly, pressing his face into Berwald's shoulder, and then somehow, someway, agile Ludwig had squirmed out from underneath him and was pulling him up to his feet, hands quick to go back around his neck and into a loop once he was upright.

A short, unsteady wobble, before Ludwig put him back on balance.

Couldn't see Ludwig, but Berwald could feel him and smell him, could hear him breathing, and he could only think to bury his face in Ludwig's hair, grab him a bit roughly, and lift him clear off in the ground in a burst of excitement, just because Ludwig made him _happy_.

Happy. Couldn't seem to shake that word from his head.

Hadn't ever been this happy.

From the death-grip Ludwig had on his neck, maybe he wasn't as enthusiastic about his feet not touching the ground, and _he_ seemed happy enough when Berwald set him back down. Would've kept him up there longer if he weren't so damn heavy.

Sure hoped he was smiling, though.

A short hesitation, as they pressed against each other, and then Ludwig seemed to have more ideas, and started moving.

Blind as he was, he let Ludwig take control after that, and found himself being dragged up the hill. He knew where Ludwig was leading him; up to that bathhouse he was so fond of. A little twinge of anxiety, quickly stifled by the sheer enthrallment. It took Ludwig a while to get him up the hill, since he refused to remove his hands from Ludwig's waist and actually let him walk properly. Couldn't—it had taken him forever to gather the courage for this, and he damn well wasn't gonna let go.

So they fumbled and staggered, and every time that Ludwig laughed as Berwald started tottering over, it felt as if some fireworks were going off in his head instead.

How they made it up there without falling, he couldn't ever have said, and Ludwig was quick to kick open the door and shove Berwald through the threshold.

And after Ludwig shut the door behind him?

Well.

Not much.

Ludwig wasn't quite as forward sober as he was drunk, that was for sure. He certainly didn't push Berwald down and straddle him as he had that night on the bed. Instead, he actually seemed rather determined to make Berwald _work_ for it, and spent most of his time squirming out of every embrace and winding up on the opposite side of the room, no matter how hard Berwald tried to pin him down to one spot.

...yeah, _that _figured.

Goddammit.

When he finally did manage to corner Ludwig long enough to grab him again, after a little agility work, something finally happened, but not exactly anything Berwald had been expecting right then. Instead of leaping on him (wishful thinking?), there was the feel of hard, cold wood beneath his back and a pain in his shoulder-blades, as Ludwig twisted him around and slammed him back against the wall.

For a second there, taken off guard a bit and wide-eyed, Berwald had almost cried, defensively, '_Hey_!'

Hadn't really expected Ludwig to turn so bold so suddenly, after being so elusive these past minutes.

A somewhat intimidating stare, and then Ludwig's grip on his shirt loosened a little, and he smiled.

Took Berwald a while to figure out that Ludwig was trying to rile him up, and he might not have figured it out at all if it hadn't been for that smile.

That had worked, alright.

Ludwig may as well have slapped him then; his hands were suddenly working on their own, and when he grabbed Ludwig's arms and flipped him around, when Ludwig was the one slammed back into the wall, everything felt a little too warm.

He felt a little...

Aggressive.

Probably Ludwig's intention, come to think, by how quickly he was subdued and the rather heavy way he looked up at him. Hands clenched in the front of his shirt, and he wasn't really aware of anything else going on around them then, not when Ludwig's fingers started undoing the buttons on his shirt.

Hands on his skin.

Heat.

A little dizziness.

Nervousness, under the burn.

If he thought about too much, worried about it too much, fretted over every little thing, then nothing was going to happen, nothing was going to go forward, and, with that thought, it was actually pretty easy to just cast it all aside and try to stay focused on Ludwig's hands.

Probably the bravest he'd ever had to be in his fuckin' life.

Not crawling through fields or forests, not dodging bullets and mines, not running one day from Reds and then the next day from Germans.

Just trying to survive Ludwig was work enough.

He realized that he still had a vice-grip on Ludwig's upper arms, probably bruising him to hell, and grabbed him by the hair instead to kiss him again.

Oh, yeah. Ludwig was probably going to be the thing that killed him, in the end.

Hands fumbled here and there, winding up in his belt as they had once before. Didn't fight it this time, and he let Ludwig do whatever he wanted, anything at all, and went along for the ride. Took him a bit to gather the courage to strip Ludwig of his own shirt.

He wasn't as collected as Ludwig was, and didn't exactly unbutton the shirt so much as rip it.

Even in the dim light, Berwald could see the exasperated look Ludwig sent him, as buttons flew all over the floor.

A gruff mutter.

"I liked this shirt."

"Sorry," he replied, even though he wasn't, and distracted Ludwig easily enough by wrenching it off the rest of the way, and—

Where the hell had his belt gone?

Ludwig was fast, and more than a little sly.

Couldn't help but a gasp a little when Ludwig's hands were suddenly thrust into his pants, and somehow they wound up on the floor, Ludwig not letting him get even an inch away. As if he had wanted to.

There was a moment, though, entangled in each other and suddenly completely exposed, that they fell still and looked at each other with a bit of anxiety.

Apprehension.

Neither one of them really knew what the hell they were doin', apparently, because even bold, fearless Ludwig suddenly seemed a bit tentative.

Hadn't been with anyone since he'd been seventeen, and barely even remembered it, drunk as he had been, and from that look on Ludwig's face, he probably hadn't been with anyone at all.

A little scared.

Still, though, Ludwig put a hand on Berwald's face and smiled, trying to be encouraging in the face of this terrifying new experience. An odd expression. It wasn't really a word that he ever attached to brawny, strong-willed Ludwig, but somehow Berwald had thought then that he looked rather...sweet.

Sweet.

That sounded strange, but there it was.

And that was the look, after all of it, that did him in.

Knowing that Ludwig trusted him like that, to put himself into a such a vulnerable position, knowing that Ludwig had fallen down underneath him because he had wanted to, knowing that Ludwig could have had anyone else, _anyone_, and had picked him.

Bolstered and feeling drunk for some reason, he grabbed that hand on his face, kissed its palm, and promptly and maybe too roughly flipped Ludwig over. Couldn't see, but he could imagine Ludwig squinting his eyes as his face was pushed into the uncomfortable floor, maybe having second thoughts.

Too late.

Ludwig had set fire to something, and it couldn't be turned off again.

Almost didn't recognize himself then. Hadn't ever thought he'd be able to do it at all, let alone do it in the perhaps hostile manner that he did. Spent all that time dancin' around Ludwig, trying to be gentle and aloof and careful, and suddenly he was yanking his hair and pinning him into the ground with little care for comfort. Spent all that time trying to keep Ludwig from harm, and suddenly he was the one twisting Ludwig's arm behind his back so hard that he could hear him hissing.

Ludwig had tried to fight him to the death once.

This time, Ludwig didn't even try to struggle against him, and just let him do whatever without so much as a word of protest. Ludwig wasn't scared of him, he knew better than that, and Ludwig coulda knocked him out at any time, so he must have liked it; otherwise, an elbow to the nose would have taken him out a long time ago.

His heart hadn't ever beat as fast as it did then, when he felt himself grabbing Ludwig and pulling him up, when he spit in his hand, when he braced his knees, when he held Ludwig in place and took a deep breath and then pushed forward, and not that gently.

A short, strangled gasp of what could only have been pain.

Then stillness, as he buried his face into the back of Ludwig's neck, clenching Ludwig's waist for all he was worth, and he thought he heard Ludwig utter an unintelligible whisper. Once again, air was hard to find, and he sat still until restless Ludwig had settled and was pushing back against him in an effort to get him moving.

Could have stayed that way forever, warm as Ludwig was.

Took him a second to start moving, just from the sensation, just from the feel of Ludwig beneath him, and it took longer than Ludwig might have liked before he finally gasped in a great breath and pulled back.

When he pushed forward again, as roughly as the first time, he was met with a cry.

And, really, the only thing causing him any anxiety after that, if only barely, was Ludwig's loud damn voice.

Couldn't move without Ludwig cryin' out.

Not that he didn't like it; he loved the sound of it, always imagined he would, and if he had had his way, he probably would have tried to get Ludwig screamin' like he had wanted, but...

Were the others on their way back?

Probably not, but Berwald found himself clamping a hand over Ludwig's mouth all the same, because, Christ, the last thing he needed was for one of them to walk up to the house after a night of drinking and then come to investigate a strange noise.

Woulda died, but not before punching the unlucky bastard right in the nose and then kickin' 'em down the hill.

Muffled cries.

Things might have gotten a little hectic afterwards, and maybe at some point he had put his hand over Ludwig's nose, too, just for a minute, enough to get Ludwig to reach up and wrench himself free. He might have been too forceful with the whole thing, too rough, but when it came down to it, Ludwig wasn't exactly gentle himself, as seemed to meet every act of hostility with one of his own.

Anytime Berwald pushed too hard, Ludwig's hand tangled in his hair and pulled until he was almost wincing. When Berwald bit a little too hard, Ludwig responded by digging his fingernails so hard into Berwald's forearms that they nearly broke the skin. When Berwald pulled a limb too hard this way or that, Ludwig hands dug into his skin fiercely enough to bruise him.

Hurting each other, but only barely.

By the time he had flipped Ludwig over again onto his back, he was already sore, and surely Ludwig was too. Aggression had burnt out, maybe; Berwald found that once they were face to face again, both of their motions had gotten considerably gentler.

Slower.

Ludwig's hands weren't ever still, running everywhere they could, usually getting a shiver in response.

Went by far too quickly. Could have been an hour, but felt like just a few breathless seconds.

Good things always went by too quickly.

Legs curled around him as he started picking up the pace again in the last moments of burning, an arch against him as Ludwig stopped breathing for a moment, and a curling of his toes. He was fairly certain that Ludwig's nails were tearing his back to kingdom come in that instant, from the way he way he was clinging to him, and maybe he would have winced if everything together hadn't felt so fuckin' incredible.

Couldn't move much, suddenly, as Ludwig's iron thighs held his own in place, but he was so far gone by then that shallow movements were all he needed.

A gasp below, as Ludwig started breathing again, burying his face in Berwald's collarbone with a shudder.

A flash of white, a couple of stars, and he was the one holding his breath without realizing it, until his chest opened up so abruptly and forcefully that he got dizzy. If his hands hadn't been braced on the floor, they probably would have been shaking.

He hung there for a while, held up on shaky arms and head bowed as he tried to catch his breath, until Ludwig's legs decided to let him go.

He collapsed above Ludwig heavily enough to knock the breath out of him for a second, feeling as if his heart would explode at any moment, breathing too hard through his mouth and resting his head on a heaving chest, and Ludwig's fingers released their grip on his back, running down instead to his hair. No pulling that time; just slow, gentle strokes.

His mind drifted here and there for a while, until Ludwig's fingers trailing over his neck brought him down to earth.

When he lifted his head, Ludwig's nose bumping into his own, he was relieved, more than anything, to see that Ludwig was smiling. Berwald found that he couldn't smile back that time, not with everything running that was suddenly through his head.

The first twinges of uncertainty.

Hadn't exactly been perfect. Hadn't been bad, either. The best that could be expected, perhaps, with two inexperienced souls trying to couple. Next time would be better, and less awkward.

All the same, it was the first time he could meet Ludwig's eyes and know that he and Ludwig were 'together'. Hadn't thought it was even possible, just months ago, and he hoped then that Ludwig felt for him something even halfway close to what he did. Didn't have to be as strong; just as Ludwig felt enough for him to stay.

He couldn't even imagine what he'd do if Ludwig were gone.

If he didn't really make Ludwig as happy as Ludwig made him.

Ludwig saw his mind whirring away, no doubt, and suddenly snorted.

"You know," he began, voice cracking and a bit husky and yet clearly meaning to calm, "As many times as ya tackled me when we first met, maybe I should have known that this would happen."

Oh, sure.

As if _he_ had been the one chasing.

"Many times as ya tried to kill me," he muttered in retort, "maybe I shoulda learned to watch my back."

No smart comeback from Ludwig, not that time.

Instead, Ludwig's hands fell onto the back of his neck, and the brush of lips against his damp forehead was beyond comforting, and so were the sudden gentleness of his fingers as they ran over his shoulder blades.

Another one of those quirks about Ludwig; how he could go from being almost alarmingly aggressive to being so damn soothing. Couldn't figure it out.

Crazy.

Berwald loved everything about him.

So he stayed there, using Ludwig as a makeshift mattress, and Ludwig might not have been able to breathe all that well, not pinned under his full weight, but Berwald stayed there on top of him all the same as sleep crept up. Couldn't bring himself to get off of him.

Maybe some part of him was always terrified that Ludwig would leave.

Couldn't fret for too much longer; exhaustion knocked him out.

On the very last brink of consciousness, Berwald wished, desperately, that this night would never come to an end. Or, at the very least, he wished that he could awake in the morning to this exact same day and relive it over and over, stuck for eternity in a serene loop and forgetting everything and everyone outside the door.

In lieu of that, perhaps, he would have been content to create new days, as long as they were like this.

His mind wandered until it had drifted into the realm of dreams.

At some point during the night, Ludwig attempted to wriggle out from beneath him, no doubt to catch a breather, and Berwald rolled off of him.

Chilly air. Uncomfortable floor.

Nope—he reached out, dragged Ludwig back, and was halfway on top of him again in a second. Ludwig gave a sleepy snort, but didn't make a move, letting him do as he would as he did in everything else.

Berwald realized that sleeping alone was no longer an option for as long as he lived.

Didn't feel right.

They didn't move again until daylight came back.

The others had likely already come home and gone to bed long before dawn.

Everything was quiet.

A couple of birds chirping, but no footsteps, and no doors shutting.

The rise of the sun was exceedingly unwelcome.

Admitting that the night had ended.

It was only the thought of having one of the others see them slinking inside the house, messy and sweaty, that finally forced Berwald to get up.

He shook Ludwig, who actually swatted him away in irritation until he seemed to remember where he was and in what state, and when Ludwig finally sat up, hair sticking up and very pale, he sent Berwald one of those lopsided leers that Berwald had come to adore.

Ludwig wasn't too keen on departing, though, not right away.

A hand reached out, as it had so many times, and fixed Berwald's hair. This time it lingered there for a while, and Berwald shut his eyes as he had the night before when Ludwig had rested above him.

Peace.

Ludwig had a way of subduing him, no matter when or where.

A hand on his head could make him calmer than any pill.

They got dressed, or at least Berwald tried to as best he could, for Ludwig continuously unbuttoning his shirt no matter how many times he buttoned it back up, Ludwig gathered his own buttons up from the floor, and eventually they crept back down the hill, Berwald making a short detour on the way to pat down grass and hunt for his damn glasses.

At the last second, Ludwig suddenly perched them back onto his nose.

Must have had them the whole time.

He considered himself beyond lucky that they hadn't been broken.

Nothing could have ever felt as surreal as seeing Ludwig in that moment did, after so long in the dark.

So many things he always wanted to say, and never could.

How they got back inside without being caught would always be a mystery to him, for as much noise as they made as circled each other in the hall and then back again in the living room, too enthralled with each other to go back to sleep and too restless to stand still.

Berwald finally stuck his head in the kitchen, carefully, and breathed a sigh of relief to see that no one was waiting.

He'd hate to ruin that giddiness by having an awkward conversation with one of them, wondering why on earth they were slinking inside the house at the crack of dawn looking so messy.

Why Ludwig's shirt was ripped open.

They sat at the kitchen table after a quick change of clothes, pale Ludwig looking at him fondly as they whispered to each other about nothing at all, and Berwald had barely even realized that the others had joined them a while later.

It wasn't almost like they weren't there at all.

Ludwig was the center of his universe.

They may have been lovesick and dumb, but they had had enough sense to wear long-sleeve shirts to hide various bruises. The fingernail marks on Berwald's arms were still bright red, and Ludwig's collar was buttoned all the way up to his chin for once, to hide the discoloration on his neck.

Always best to avoid unwanted questions.

It seemed that Magnus was really the only one that noticed something amiss that morning, and he furrowed his brow, reached out, and placed a palm on Ludwig's forehead.

"You feelin' okay? You look kinda sick."

Ludwig just smiled, squinted eyes very much alight.

Berwald realized, then, that palm on Ludwig's forehead, that Magnus didn't bother him much anymore.

...maybe he'd been kinda unfair to the poor guy.

He had hated Magnus for the sake of love, and no doubt Magnus hated him for the same.

Love drove men insane.

But as it stood now, Magnus was no longer a threat. Never really had been, come to think. So. Let him touch Ludwig all he wanted. Didn't matter. Nothing Magnus could ever do would have been able to get rid of that sensation.

Ludwig was his.

Nothing had ever been his, his entire life.

That feeling was enough to keep him there at the table long after the others had gone, chin in palm, and stare at Ludwig until he couldn't stare anymore.

Ludwig stared back, always, and smiled.

Berwald realized then.

Didn't matter if it was spring, summer, fall or winter; whenever Ludwig was around, the sun and stars were somehow out in full force at the same time.

That night, that feeling, those fireworks always came back whenever Ludwig looked at him.

Love.


End file.
